


The Things We Carry

by Apokalyptik



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Conversations, Baby Yoda - Freeform, Drunk Mando, F/M, Feels, Get your shit together Mando, I wasn't going to write smut but somehow it ended up happening, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Sexy Feels, Slow Burn, The Job on Alzoc III, Unresolved Sexual Tension, lonely hearts club, the creed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 77,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25077754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apokalyptik/pseuds/Apokalyptik
Summary: Ever wonder about all the hints dropped by Xi'an, Qin and Ran about Mando's past during ep. 6? This fic plays with those gaps. I wanted to  imagine what the Mandalorian might have been like as a young man, possibly looking for fulfillment outside of The Way - all the while fielding Xi'an's advances and trying to crack the cold exterior of a female OC who urges him not to abandon his vow.Most of this story takes place 15 years before The Child and eventually back to ep. 6, “The Prisoner” and beyond.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 174
Kudos: 119





	1. PART ONE - THE PAST

**Author's Note:**

> Pronunciation of OC's name, Solveig Riis: [soul-vay reese]
> 
> I spent a lot of time thinking about her. I hope she grows on you as she has on me! As I said, this is a sloooow burn, so give her some time to shine! :)
> 
> This chapter starts with a brief recap of ep.6's introductions with the OC's debut added in. :)

“Mando!”

Ranzar Malk. Fifteen years later, and here he is, much stouter than before and with even more hair. It doesn’t take the Mandalorian to use his binocs to see that Ran, who is only seven years older, has aged poorly, huffing toward him with an unsteady gait.

Ran brings him around to the others – a smug human called Mayfeld and a hulking Devaronian named Burg. They bluster, gloat and insult, which only makes the Mandalorian seethe contempt beneath the helmet. Ran hasn’t changed a bit: He’d always been a sweet talking bastard whose approach to life was “slam spice and hope for the best.” Not to mention always surrounding himself with the lowest of the low. In fact, the Mandalorian wonders if Ran hasn’t had one snort too many in the years that have passed.

A droid appears and Mayfeld introduces him as Zero, their pilot. The Mandalorian's entire body tenses. If he wasn’t on the run and so low on credits, he’d excuse himself right now.

“I thought you said you had four,” he growls.

Then he hears it. _Her_ voice. Syrupy, angry and bemused all at once.

“He does.”

The Mandalorian turns to see the familiar blue-skinned Twi'lek twirling a knife and looking like she hadn't aged a day. He hadn't expected her to be here, for all her past talk about leaving Ran's outfit. But here she is. Had she stayed on all this time?

"Xi'an," he rasps.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t cut you down where you stand?”

The Twilek slashes her knife through the air, landing it just below his throat. The Mandalorian doesn’t move. He knows this game too well.

“Nice to see you too.”

Xi’ans face splits into a laugh.

Beneath the armour, the Mandalorian stiffens, the sight of her brings up feelings of guilt, disgust and anger. He keeps a careful watch on those slippery hands. He is wiser now to keep his distance. The rest of them continue quipping about Xi'an and Mando's rumoured past. Accused of being broken-hearted by the Mandalorian’s departure so many years ago, Xi’an sidesteps, sarcasm spewing from every word.

“Oh I’m all business now. Learned from the best.”

The Mandalorian knows exactly what she's talking about, but he acts as if he doesn't. 

"If you’re done your reunion,” Ran says, pulling Mando away from Xi’an, “There's someone else from the old crew that's here." Ran ticks his head toward his right.

The Mandalorian follows the gesture. Then, he sees her.

A woman steps out from the shadows like she has done in his dreams for fifteen years. But this is real.

He feels as though all air has been sucked out of his helmet. She was attractive then, but she has grown even more striking since. This day has gone from bad to worse.

Ran ushers the newcomer to their circle, her face implacable as she shrugs off the portly man’s hands. Her expression is flat, without emotion or expression like the first time he met her all those years ago. Perhaps she has not changed much, he thinks.

They look each other over in silence.

"Riis," he says, finally.

"Mando."

* * *

 **The Mandalorian remembered the first time he saw her.** And it was a meeting just like this.

After leaving the Fighting Corps of his clan, he had set out looking for a purpose beyond what his people taught him. Of course, he’d never told his _Buir_ this; he had been grateful to him and the Mandalorians for taking him in. It had been ten years since he’d sworn The Creed, which was easy to do then, as eager as he was to belong. But now, at 23, he had questioned it more times than he wanted to admit. And although The Way eliminated the need to question his purpose, he still wondered what his place was among the Mandalorians. He still wanted to know what life with his parents would have been like if they’d lived. Thinking about them still hurt; it angered him that he couldn’t let his past go and be the Mandalorian his _Buir_ wanted him to be. And he hated himself for it.

He had met Ran at a seedy cantina on Savareen where he was looking for his next job, the last one having been a mindless position as a rich man’s bodyguard. Ranzar Malk, as he was called in full, was a heavy-set human, about thirty years old, with a long, rectangular face and a distinct, very large halo of curly hair. They became acquainted after getting into a cantina fight with a couple of goons looking for trouble. Afterwards, the loud and boisterous Ran offered him a place on his team, where he promised more exciting work and better pay.

The Mandalorian, with no other opportunity, took the offer and had taken the Razor Crest to the coordinates Ran had given him. Now he was here, at Ran’s outpost, being introduced to his crew.

While Ran was running his mouth, the Mandalorian took a preliminary sweep of the others. There were two males: one Nikto, the other a Twi’lek. They looked like common space scum and dismissed them entirely. Another Twi’lek, a female, glowed blue in the fluorescent lighting of the hangar. She was balancing a dagger on her fingertip and looking up at him, she smiled – a mouth full of sharp teeth. He noted to be careful around her. They were young, like him, save for the Nikto whose age he could not tell. It was a rag-tag crew to be sure, but he knew working with them would be different. They were not Mandalorians, after all. Those with whom he had fought alongside followed the same code, upheld the same standards of honour. And this is why he’d left the covert. He wanted to test what he knew in the outside world, to scrape steel against steel, and see if The Way would hold true. Then he would know if it was all worth it.

Concluding his assessment of the crew, the Mandalorian was about to bring his attention back to Ran when something lit up in his HUD. A heat signature? He turned it off and peered into the shadows. To his surprise, he made out the form of a young woman sitting stone-still, partly concealed by a tall stack of crates.

Beneath the helmet, the Mandalorian frowned. It irked him that it took the HUD to pick up her presence; no one had ever escaped his notice. Strange, too, was the way the woman was staring back at him unblinking and challenging. Her eyes had caught his, even if she didn’t know it. And not once did her face flinch or bear any emotion, still as she was, like a statue.

Perhaps joining this crew would be more interesting than he had thought. A non-Mandalorian, her face like a mask. But her body, tensed and coiled, announced: _I’m ready_. Had this been in his covert, he would have taken this as an invitation for an introduction by friendly combat. But, she was not Mandalorian, and he was told that outside the covert, starting a fight with a stranger was not an advisable way to make new friends.

Pity, he thought, as he followed Ran away from the crew. He regretted not having had the chance to introduce himself.

* * *

That night, while the crew was having third meal, the Mandalorian watched the group more carefully. Because he had already eaten in his quarters, he had seated himself in an empty corner with a clear view of the galley. It was to be expected that Gorgo, the biggest of them, was always dominating the room physically, while the other, the Twi’lek male named Qin, used his sardonic humour to cut the other one down. Then there was his sister, Xi’an, who slithered between them all like a snake, and the quiet one, whose gaze had challenged him in the docking bay – the one who went by a single name: Riis.

She was now sitting alone in the corner opposite him, cradling her supper between her arms. Her attention was absorbed in a handheld data pad while she ate, displaying nothing on her face again but an expressionless mask. It was brighter in the galley than where he had first seen her, revealing almond shaped eyes and high cheekbones set in an angular face, across which was sprinkled a few freckles. Her hair, framing her face, was black and hung like a curtain around her shoulders. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty.

A flash of blue, and the female Twi’lek seated herself diagonally from him, blocking his study of the enigmatic Riis.

Xi’an.

“Well,” drawled the Twi’lek in a sing-song, her smile all teeth.

The Mandalorian tilted his helmet slightly. After a silence, he volleyed her words back. “Well, what?”

“A Mandalorian,” she said.

When he said nothing, she continued. “Thought your kind was the stuff of bedtime stories: ‘Watch out for the big, scary Mandos. They’ll steal you away if you’ve been bad!’ ” she pantomimed claws with her own sharp nails. The Mandalorian remained still, listening. “Or, as the legends say, ‘Feared and deadly ones, warriors . . . with _honour_!’ ” She moaned the last word dramatically, exhaling it toward his visor.

It didn’t faze him that this Twi’lek had just mocked his kind. He had been warned that outsiders would insult and provoke him because of the armour, because of who he was.

“This is the Way,” was all he said.

Xi’an snickered. “The Way,” she parroted. “And this,” gesturing to his armour, “is also ‘The Way’?”

The thought of The Creed led him down a path of memories. He answered offhandedly, “It is the core of who we are.”

Xi’an’s mocking voice interrupted his thoughts. “The _core_ , you say? The armor, it’s just a shell. The core, who you really are, is underneath all this Durasteel.”

“I’ll admit, though,” she continued when he remained silent, “you are quite the sight.” She licked her red lips, appraising him with her eyes.

The way she looked at him was intriguing. No woman from his covert had looked at him like this before, obviously because he could not see their eyes. His mouth went dry, and he felt his heart beating too hard, too fast. Still, he remained stiff and motionless even as Xi’an leaned in.

“C’mon,” she hissed. “Let’s have a peek.”

The boldness of such a request made the Mandalorian scoff.

Suddenly, there was a sharp blade between them. Xi’an held a small knife to his chest plate. She cocked her head, her lips curling into a vicious smile.

“Maybe you need some _help_ ,” she purred, before deftly prying the sharp tip under the chest plate, holding it between two of his ribs.

There was a heavy silence as others in the room turned to watch. The Mandalorian didn’t move, but he felt his blood searing through his veins, white hot. Any attempt from another to remove his armour was seen as a capital offense.

Swiftly, he seized her wrist and twisted it fast and hard. Xi’an’s face contorted in pain as she released the blade, giving the Mandalorian the opportunity to snatch it with his other hand. He was now edging the knife on the soft, blue skin of her throat. This insolent Twi’lek - it would be so easy to run the blade across . . .

“No thanks,” he rasped, controlling himself.

“My apologies,” Xi’an simpered. “Of Mandalorians, I’m very ignorant. I have lots to learn,” she said with mock innocence.

The Mandalorian kept the knife pressed against her throat. Xi’an was breathless, staring up at him with big, wide eyes. It was as though she was enjoying it. He gazed down her exposed neck – so much skin – down to the plummeting neckline of her shirt. He swallowed silently, then pushed her away.

“A Mandalorian’s armour is sacred,” he said reclining back on his seat. He turned the knife, balancing it on two fingers. “It is never to be removed by another.”

“So it never comes off?” she asked, pointing to his helmet.

“In public, never,” he repeated.

“ ‘Never’ doesn’t sound like fun.”

“This is The Way,” he repeated.

Xi’an crossed her arms and blew a raspberry. In response, the Mandalorian folded up her knife and handed it back to her. She grudgingly palmed it and settled back against her chair all while attempting to look nonchalant and relaxed like a well-fed Loth-cat.

“Don’t tell me you’re another stick-in-the mud,” she said, gesturing at Riis. “What’s a girl gotta do for some fun around here?”

From across the room came the other woman’s voice. “I know,” They looked up to see Riis approaching, her face as inscrutable as before. She tossed her data pad to Xi’ian. “Do some kriffing work,” As she was nearly out of the galley, she added, “And consider flirting without knives. Maybe.”

If Riis had turned around, she would have seen Xi’an’s face colour a deeper shade of blue and the Mandalorian tilt his helmet with a scoff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations from Mando'a:**   
>  _buir [boo-EER] - father/mother, parent_
> 
> Hope you liked this first chapter! I've written a lot of this story already, but am diddling about with my edits. That to say, be sure to bookmark this work for updates coming soon! In the meantime, I'd love to hear your comments!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riis' pov. Yeah, I know it's a tidbit compared to the last chapter, but dont' worry: There's more to come!

**Solveig Riis remembered the first time she saw him.** She had been part of Ran’s crew for just over three months as their resident sniper and any time they needed a little stealth. It wasn’t that she liked working for Ran; she didn’t have much choice. She needed those credits.

Riis was in the process of taking apart her rifle and cleaning while using cargo boxes as a chair and table. It was then that Ran announced he had exciting news and rounded up the crew: the nasty siblings, Qin and Xi’an, and the brutish Nikto named Gorgo. Everyone had turned to see a fully-armoured Mandalorian descend from an unfamiliar ship. The others craned their necks to get a better look; even she stopped what she was doing to witness this rare sighting.

The stranger moved slowly with intent, as though eyeing potential threats in the group. He stopped by Ran’s side, thumbs holstered into his belt. How many rounds of ammo he carried were too many to count. From her position, half-concealed in the shadows of the cargo boxes where she sat, she sized him up. He looked cocky, the way he stood self-assuredly – maybe even pretentious – in all that rusty red Durasteel armor. One quick assessment, and she could tell he was armed to the teeth and probably capable of using all of it. How well, she would see. 

Ran announced to the group, “Crew, this is Mando. He’s gonna run with us for a while.” He jovially clapped the Mandalorian on the back, laughing something about how the new guy was going to make them famous.

She scanned the room, looking at the crew’s reaction. Gorgo was shifting his heavy bulk from side to side; Qin clicked his sharp nails. And Xi’an, well, she was giving the Mandalorian eyes and salacious grins. But when Riis returned her gaze to the new crew member, she found his T-shaped visor trained on her. Undaunted, she bore her eyes into the dark glass of his helmet, daring him to break contact. They stayed like this for a moment, but it was the Mandalorian who turned away first when Ran beckoned him off the ramp for a private conversation. 

Riis had watched her boss and the stranger move deeper into the belly of the space station. The rest of the crew dispersed.

 _Well this is going to be interesting_ , she thought.

She returned her attention back to her weapons.

* * * 

Listening to Xi’an and the Mandalorian in the galley, Riis was grateful that the latter was much more disciplined in what he revealed about himself than she thought. She was tired of listening to the others swagger, assert dominance or brag about their mercenary prowess. But when he answered Xi’an’s provoking questions with calmness and self-control, she was impressed. When he disarmed her so swiftly then handed the knife back, that was something, too. She wondered if the Mandalorian might be a crew member she could finally rely on. 

But then, the Mandalorian wasn’t as cool and collected as he seemed. Hidden under all that Durasteel was something ugly, menacing. She saw it surface when he held the knife to Xi’an’s neck. He wasn’t just holding it there to scare her; he was straining to hold himself back from cutting her. Whatever it was, she would have to wait and see. And Riis wasn’t about to let him get too close before she decided she could trust him.

The rest of them – gods help them – could barely get a simple job done without bickering or kriffing up the plans. In a few months, maybe, she’ll earn enough credits to fund her sister’s care for a few months, allowing her to look for work elsewhere. 

For now, she’d have to put up with them all. When she first joined the team, she couldn’t believe the haphazard way this so-called crew operated. To her, after years of training on her home world, this group turned out to be crude thugs with no method, no technique, no restraint. But the militia that brought her up since childhood had indoctrinated her with the belief that the outside world would be just that: chaotic, self-serving, inferior. 

The last job they were on was a disaster, in her estimation. Ran had a friend who told him of a freighter transporting gold from the outer rim to Kuat. It was barely manned and looked like a ripe opportunity. Ran’s friend said he would take a small percentage of the gold in exchange for his Intel. Of course, to Ran this seemed like an easy job. But it didn’t occur to him to check out who controlled the shipping of said gold and to whom this gold was going. These were details Riis was concerned about. 

She had raised her misgivings to Ran. They needed to know more going in, she'd said. There were far too many risks and unknowns.

He waved her off. “Your way is boring,” he huffed. Xi’an smiled devilishly; her brother, the same. Gorgo stuck with Ran, because that was all he knew how to do. “We’ll figure it out on the fly. What’s there to know?”

They were supposed to hijack the freighter, take the gold and get out. What Ran didn’t count on was running into Kanjiklub (who happened to own the freighter _and_ the gold) and having to shoot their way out. Still, the others were exuberant from their narrow escape from the gangsters. They had managed to steal away numerous bars of gold and had at least escaped with their lives. Ran waved his gold in the air, exclaiming, “We’re gonna light up the galaxy. Everyone will know who we are!”

Riis, taking apart her rifle in the small ship, had corrected him. “ _Kanjiklub_ knows. Congrats, we’re kriffed.”

Again, Ran had dismissed her with a clownish “pfft!” and carried on with celebrations with the crew. Typical.

Riis knew then that Ran was a man bent on making foolish choices for the thrill of it, a pattern she knew could end up killing them all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little "How _you_ doin'?", warrior style.

A few days after arriving, the Mandalorian had already formed clear opinions of his teammates’ character, except for one. Riis was still a mystery to him. And it became obvious that she purposefully gave him a wide berth and avoided interacting with the group, preferring to spend her time alone. 

Once, when he had cornered her in the docking bay, she gave him one-word answers to his questions and ended their “conversation” abruptly by slipping away. Even Mandalorian women he knew weren’t this cold or evasive. Yet still, something about her reminded him of home, of codes and creeds and rules to be followed. Something about the way she carried herself made him think that she, too, followed a code – not a personal set of values driven by self – but one made for a collective. An army or military, perhaps.

It made sense, the way Riis carried her rifle, like it was an extension of herself. It made sense, the way she gave firm, clipped answers. It made sense that she spoke of nothing personal. It added up that she was a soldier, quite possibly one since childhood, the way she was uncompromising in all these things.

And it made him want to know her even more. 

He decided that between the two of them, both being closed books, he would have to be the first to offer her a sliver of himself.

* * *

Ran strode in from the command centre with a wide grin on his blockish face. 

“We got another one!” he bellowed. 

“What is it?” Qin asked, sauntering over with a fanged grin.

“Oh, you know,” Ran sang. “just a little heist . . .”

Qin gave Ran a playful shove. “Come on, man. Let’s have it.”

The Mandalorian watched as Xi’an and Gorgo moved into the scene. He nearly missed noticing Riis again when his thermal sensor highlighted her form leaning against Ran’s ship.

“We’re gonna get some more of _this_!” Ran pulled a clear pouch from his pocket and dangled it in front of the crew.

The grins on the Twi’leks grew wide and sharp. Xi’an turned to her brother and squealed, “Spice!” Gorgo licked his lips. 

“Hold on, hold on,” interrupted Ran. “I’m just razzin’ with ya. We’ve been hired to smuggle it. So no taste testing!”

Xi’an hissed. “That wasn’t very nice, Ranzar. At least give us a dab.”

Ran laughed. “Not on the job. If you’re a good girl, maybe after.” 

Xi’an scowled, flipping her knife into the air and catching it by the handle. Out of the corner of his visor, the Mandalorian saw Riis roll her eyes. 

Ranzar had given them the details of the job, to steal a large shipment of spice from Nar Shadaa and smuggle it to Mordagon. 

Riis’ voice interrupted him. “Who hired us, and who are we stealing this spice from?”

“Ah, Riis. Always with the questions. You know our policy. Steal first, ask questions later.” Then, turning to the Mandalorian, Ran jabbed a thumb toward her, “Killjoy, am I right?”

The Mandalorian frowned beneath his helmet regarding Ran’s dismissive attitude toward Riis. “No,” he said flatly. “She’s right. Those details are important.”

Ran’s demeanor changed immediately. “Mando, my man,” he said, his eyebrows lifting in interest. “Then let’s talk.I could use your expertise on this one!” The two of them walked away from the crew as Ran plied him with more compliments. 

* * *

An hour later, the Mandalorian returned to the docking bay to find the crew prepping for take-off. Well, sort of. 

Qin and Xi’an were engaged in a dagger-throwing contest and Gorgo was taking a nap propped up against some crates. After disappearing into the Razor Crest, the Mandalorian soon reappeared with several hover-crates following him down the ramp. He stopped when he reached Riis, who was stationed at a long metal table with a sniper rifle, blaster, and three daggers laid out neatly in rows.

He said nothing when he took the place next to her, opening the crates one by one and unloaded each of his weapons, laying them on the same table with care. From the corner of his visor, he saw Riis’ head turn a tiny fraction. He watched as her eyes assessed his arsenal. He did it on purpose, a warrior’s way of introduction. In Mandalorian terms, allowing another to see the things he carried was an offer of trust. Whether or not she interpreted this the same way, he didn’t know. But it was all he knew, allowing weapons to speak for him.

She was silent for a long while, to the point that the Mandalorian wasn’t sure she would say anything at all. Then:

“Those are good choices,” she said quietly.

“As are yours,” he replied.

Without asking for permission, she reached over, fingertips grazing his blaster pistol. “This one is old but reliable. A gift?”

The Mandalorian was surprised at her insight. It took him a moment before he nodded. “From my _Buir_ – guardian.” 

Riis said nothing, but gave him a nearly indiscernible smile that softened her face and drew a tenderness into her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was leaps and bounds from the tempered steel of her expression during the last few days. She seemed far away as she caressed the handle. 

“What’s it like being a Mandalorian?” she asked absent-mindedly.

Another question from her. It seemed he was on the right track, but how to answer a question like that? There were so many things to say, yet so many things he could not say. Instead, he chose to deflect. 

“Lots of training,” he replied.

She looked at him then, eyes much warmer than he had seen since meeting her. “How old are you?”

A personal question. He disliked those. “Guess,” he parried.

“Fifty.” 

The Mandalorian laughed. It must have seemed funny to Riis, because her face nearly broke its usual hardness.

“Do I seem old to you?”

“How should I know?” Riis was almost smiling as she looked at him, but it seemed she caught her reflection in his visor and it faded quickly. She filled the silence with another question.

“How long since you swore the creed, then?”

So she knew about The Creed. The reason he couldn’t remove his helmet to anyone. All of the outsiders he had met so far knew nothing about it.

“Ten years.” 

She nodded. “So, you’re twenty-three.” 

The Mandalorian was surprised. She knew the age it was sworn. “How did you know? The age – about The Creed?”

She shrugged. “I was taught a lot of things. One was about other warrior cultures. Mostly, it was about weapons and fighting.”

 _Other_ warrior cultures? She just implied that she belonged to one, but which? 

Before the Mandalorian could ask, Riis’ hand wandered to his vibroblade and picked it up. He noted that she never looked more content than when holding a weapon. She examined it in her hands. “This is very fine,” she said, more to herself. “The balance is good.”

Yes, she had certainly been taught about weapons. He wondered at her own training, if she was as skilled in their use as she was in their knowledge of them. All the more interesting was that he had been right about her background: If there is one thing he knew about all warriors, weaponry was a universal language. Now, he felt he was getting somewhere. 

Riis had just set down his vibroblade and touched the long staff-like weapon laying beside it. “I’ve never seen a weapon like this. What is it?”

“Amban rifle,” he replied. 

Immediately, Riis drew her hand back as if burned. 

“What?” he asked, concerned. Her face had hardened again into an expressionless mask. 

“A most unjust weapon.”

“Unjust?”

“For the destruction it yields, no skill is required to wield it. Disintegration is the mark of thugs.” She sounded stiff, as though reciting something she had committed to memory.

“It is a Mandalorian weapon. You imply my kind are thugs?”

“No,” she answered matter-of-factly. “I know there are many uses for an amban rifle. The function of disintegration itself is unjust.”

The Mandalorian shrugged. “It’s quick and effective. We do what it takes to survive.” Then, he gestured to her blaster on the table. “What about your rifle? Yours may not disintegrate, but aimed right, it could kill an opponent. What’s the difference?”

“Margin for error.”

The Mandalorian cocked his head. “You mean you _wish_ to miss?”

“No, my point is that I can choose where I aim. I can bring down an enemy while keeping them alive. My one shot doesn’t _vaporize_ them.”

Riis was standing menacingly close, her eyes holding his own behind the visor. 

“In my experience, _no_ margin for error is the best kind.” His words came out harsher than he wished through the helmet mic. 

The Mandalorian watched as her mouth opened and closed, searching for words. Before she could respond, a large grey hand reached across and snatched her gun from the table. They both turned to see Gorgo looming over her, said rifle in hand. 

“Wanna trade?” he asked with a smirk on his face.

“No,” she answered flatly, and she held out her hand like a child demanding a sweet. Gorgo looked at it, and back at her face with a sneer. The Mandalorian hovered a hand over his blaster pistol.

“I’ll give it back,” he began, “For a smile.”

Riis’ impassive face never changed, but her body tensed, ready to act. It was Ran’s voice that interrupted them. 

“Gorgo, don’t be an ass. Just give the girl her gun.” 

The big Nikto grunted. “I was just having some fun – ”

“Just give it back,” Ran repeated.

After a few heavy seconds, Gorgo handed her the rifle reluctantly. Ran patted him on the back. Speaking to the both of them, he said, “There now, _be nice_ –"

Ran had barely finished his sentence when a shot rang out and Gorgo stopped in his tracks. There was smoke coming off the tip of one of his horns. The hulking Nikto spun around, veins bulging. 

Ran stabbed his finger in the air, pointing at Riis, “I told you to be nice!”

She lowered her weapon and shrugged. “I _was_ being nice.”

Ran grabbed Gorgo by the shoulder and held him back. He whispered something to the large sentient and they both turned and walked away. Riis twisted around to face the Mandalorian with the slightest grin on her face.

“See? Margin for error.”

Beneath the helmet, the Mandalorian smirked. They might differ on weapon methodology, but they were both not to be underestimated - and similar in more ways than the masks they wore.


	4. Chapter 4

Qin was flying, which meant the rest of them were stuck in the belly of Ran’s ship en route to Nar Shadaa. Riis kept her distance as usual, taking a spot near the cargo bay doors with her back up against the wall. She was reading the data pad in her hands, but could not help observing her shipmates from time to time: Gorgo and Ran were playing Sabacc (with Gorgo losing every time) and Xi’an was nearly draped over the Mandalorian in what looked to be an intimate conference.

There was a commotion by the Sabacc players. Gorgo had upset the table after losing for the ninth time, and Ran stood to avoid the spill. 

“Ah, Gorgo. Don’t be such a sore loser,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “Clean up your mess.”

Now freed from his game, Ran wandered over to the Mandalorian and Twi’lek, pulling up a crate as a chair.

“Careful, Mando,” Ran said, gesturing to Xi’an, “That one bites.”

Xi’an hissed. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Ran _zar_ ,” she snarled, baring teeth.

Ran ignored her. “You know, Mando, when you took my offer to join us, I was surprised. I mean, look at you! Head to toe covered in armor and who knows how many weapons on ya. And man, Xi’an, you should’ve seen this guy fight. Those thugs at the cantina, they didn’t know what him ‘em!”

Riis watched as the Mandalorian stretched out his legs but maintained the same position, with thumbs hooked into his belt, body relaxed against the ship wall. What a cocky ass, she thought. Soaking up the praise.

Meanwhile, Xi’an licked her lips, like she was ready to take a bite.

“You as good as he says, Mando?” Xi’an wheedled.

His helmet tipped slightly. “Ran’s seen nothing yet.”

Riis rolled her eyes. The trio continued.

“Yeah? Can’t wait!” bellowed Ran, slapping his thighs. “Runnin’ with a Mando, this is gonna be somethin’!” 

Xi’an, perched next to the Mandalorian with her knee almost touching his thigh, ran a bold finger down a chest plate. “Tell me, you’ve got all your Mando creeds and rules and _honour_. What’s a good little Mando doing with the likes of us?”

Ran leaned in, goading. “Yeah, Mando. What’s in it for you?”

The Mandalorian drew his blaster with lightning speed, keeping it at his hip. “Target practice.”

Xi’an and Ran erupted in joint laughter. Xi’an, giggling, clapped her hands; Ran slapped his knee. Even if Riis couldn’t see his face, she could tell the Mandalorian was enjoying the attention by the way he twirled the blaster on his index and slid it back into its holster. Show-off.

At this point, Riis knew she wasn’t going to get anymore reading done and she was tired of listening. It was a good time to let Qin join the dumb-assery in the cargo bay so she could have some quiet in the cockpit. She hopped off her seat and made her way toward the front of the ship. As she passed the others, she noticed the Mandalorian straighten in his seat and look her way. Xi’an and Ran turned to watch her as well. 

“Not gonna join us, darlin’?” entreated Ran in a syrupy voice. He held out a large, fleshy hand to block her way. Riis stopped briefly to throw them a cold stare before batting his hand away. 

“That one,” Xi’an said, “doesn’t play.”

Riis suppressed an irritated sigh and continued past them. Even out of the cargo bay, she could still hear Ran and Xi’an sniggering behind her.

* * *

In the cockpit, Riis was grateful for the quiet, away from all the posturing and customary swagger. Sighing deeply, she settled back against the pilot’s seat watching the stars stream by in lightspeed. The din of the crew echoed distantly through the corridor, but her thoughts began to wander far away, back to the reason that kept her here in the first place.

Alva Riis. Her sister.

Older by two years, Alva had been horribly wounded by a sonic blast while on assignment for their militia. It was the reason Solveig had left her homeworld: Alva needed round-the-clock care, and Solveig needed credits to pay for it. 

Strong, capable Alva lying paralyzed in a care home on Coruscant.

Solveig closed her eyes. She was almost late for last month’s payment. If Ran wasn’t so reckless, she wouldn’t worry before a job like this. 

She was pulled from her thoughts when a voice spoke. 

“You hungry?”

She looked up. A dark t-shaped visor stared back. Riis noticed the tray his hands as he walked forward and placed it down an empty place on the dash. On it was a bowl of rehydrated stew and a steaming cup of tea. 

Huh. She didn’t expect this. It was thoughtful of him, actually. 

Riis managed to thank him, which he accepted with a nod, followed by a jerk of the head toward the food.

She picked up the stew and put a spoonful in her mouth, feeling self-conscious with the Mandalorian looming over her as she ate. She found, however, that he wasn’t paying so much attention to her eating than he was to the stars outside. 

While she ate, Riis got a good look at the Mandalorian between mouthfuls. She could see in the starlight the dents, scratches and nicks on his helmet and wondered what kind of life he’d lived. 

Ten years encased in all that armour, she thought. In the back of her mind, she was jealous. She’d spent her entire life forced to close herself from all emotion, to train her face to reveal nothing. How easy it would’ve been to have just worn a mask. 

After gulping down the rest of the stew, she pushed back to recline on her seat, holding the cup of tea between both hands. The Mandalorian turned his gaze on her. 

His voice was surprisingly soft when he spoke, piercing the quiet hum of the cockpit. “What are you doing running with this crowd?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not like the others.”

“Neither are you.”

He ignored her deflection. “Can’t be for the fun of it,” he said. You’re too serious.”

She heard the light tone in his voice and restrained a smile. Warmth spread through her cheeks. 

“I have my reasons.”

“Do you never talk about yourself?”

“Do you?”

They stared at each other while stars streamed past. “No.”

Riis tapped the side of her mug and looked away. The void of space echoed the silence between them. Finally, she said, “It gets lonely, doesn’t it?”

There was a slight pause, a shift of fabric. The Mandalorian said simply, “Yes.”

Riis heard the faint scrape in his voice as he spoke, filled with longing and a familiar heaviness. The realization made goosebumps prickle her skin. 

To her surprise, the Mandalorian removed his cape and handed it to her. He motioned it toward her when she didn’t move.

“You’re cold. Take it.”

She wasn’t cold, but she didn’t correct him, either. Better to let him think she was cold than to tell him that she understood what he felt – the bleakness of being alone – and risk showing him all her cards.  
She accepted his cape and he nodded. He turned then, exiting the cockpit as she listened to his footsteps fade in the distance. 

When he was gone, Riis examined the cape, noting the coarseness of the woolen fabric in her hands. Flipping it around her shoulders like a shawl, she found it was still warm from being pressed against the Mandalorian’s back. Instinctually, she held the cloth up to her face, feeling the remnant of his body heat radiate against her skin. It smelled of blaster fire, engine oil and something else. She blinked when she realized it was of him, what his skin must smell like. Smiling now, in private, Riis wrapped the cape around herself a little tighter. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 is up. Enjoy!

It took several days to reach Nar Shadaa. Finally, they entered the atmosphere and headed to Hutta Town, hiding the ship in the shadows of the huge tower blocks congesting the city. Ran assembled the crew to go over his “plan.” 

But although the Mandalorian had advised him on strategy, Ran stuck mainly to his original, slapdash approach. He said it was simple. Their client, a Mordagon drug dealer, had indicated that the spice would be found at the eastern shipping port in container C3-481. Just find the right shipping container, crack it open and smuggle spice back to Mordagon. 

The Mandalorian hadn’t argued with the man; instead, he stood leaning against the blast doors with his arms crossed. This wasn’t the covert. Crews outside his home had different ways of doing things, and he was itching for action. So be it.

Riis, he noticed, had her tongue shoved to the inside of a cheek as though barring herself from speaking. Moments before, she had appeared opposite from him, always at another vantage point. Again, he nearly missed her by the way she dissolved into the shadows. Everything she wore was black, from her high-neck shirt, to black gloves and tactical pants. She already had her rifle slung on her back, her blaster holstered, and he guessed the three knives she brought were hidden somewhere on her person. Though she didn’t wear any armour, she had a steely look on her face that made her seem just as dangerous as the metal-plated Mandalorians he had grown up with. 

As soon as Ran finished the briefing, the others bustled about grabbing necessities and shouldered their way off the ship. Qin stayed behind should they need a quick getaway, and Riis, he noticed, was the last to exit, blaster already in hand and ready. 

The group snuck into the port with ease under the cover of night. They played the shadows to their advantage while following the alpha-numeric signs that categorized the containers. At this point, Xi’an, Ran and Gorgo shrugged off any apprehensions of the situation and casually wandered the port to find the right container. The Mandalorian watched the others with unease. They were too nonchalant. Negligent. Instead, he stayed in the shadows scrutinizing the situation. That’s when he saw Riis quietly ascending a port tower and hiding behind a pile of crates. 

Taking higher ground, he thought. Smart.

If there was anyone whose lead he should follow, he knew it should be hers. He ascended the same stairs and joined her on the landing. Riis, not moving from her position, placed a finger to her lips. 

He crouched down next to her. She didn’t have to turn her head to whisper, “I can see the container from here. The blue one.” She pointed. The Mandalorian nodded. 

“You always do your own thing?” he asked.

Riis kept her gaze glued through the scope of her rifle. “The others always rush in head-first. Xi’an wants first blood, Ran won’t listen to anyone, and Gorgo, well, there’s not much up there.”

There was a silence before the Mandalorian asked, “What about you?” 

Her eye glued to her scope, she said, “I watch.” 

Saying nothing for a while, the Mandalorian wondered how many times in the past Riis had to watch out for the crew. 

Finally, she broke the silence, whispering more to herself, “This is too easy. It’s too quiet.”

“See anyone else out there?”

“No,” she replied. “But seems likely there will be.”

The Mandalorian was about to respond when she raised a hand commanding silence. He looked across the port to see the other crew members sidling into view.

“They’re too exposed,” he said.

“That’s why I’m up here,” she muttered. 

“Where did you learn all this?”

Solveig let out a sigh and finally turned to look at him, her face tinged with annoyance, “Do you always talk this much?”

The Mandalorian shut up, slightly amazed that a non-Mandalorian had one-upped him on stoic reticence. Who was this girl? He had left the covert to see what the rest of the galaxy was like; instead, he had run into a woman who was more like himself than he wanted to admit, minus the armour.

“Fierfek,” Riis hissed. He looked down at the platform below to see multiple heat signatures approaching the container on the other side of their comrades. 

The Mandalorian hailed the team through his helmet. “Ran, take cover. Hostiles approaching –” Nothing but static. He tried again. “Ran!”

Riis reacted quickly, knowing that if Ran’s comlink was off, there was only one thing she could do to alert the crew below. She caught one figure in her cross-hairs and fired. 

Her shot rang out through the space port. The Mandalorian saw the crew take cover behind crates and containers. There was a distant thump followed by blaster shots returning from the dark. He jumped off the tower, just before Riis took another shot.

* * *

The Mandalorian had disappeared. One moment he was next to her, the next he was gone. 

Hopefully he’ll prove himself useful, she thought. She took down three more hostiles, while the others blindly shot at the shadows. 

Five, six, seven down. She scanned the area. The assailants had momentarily gone into hiding, which afforded a brief pause. This gave her time to get a better look at the enemy, who she realized was wearing the symbol of Grakkus the Hutt. 

Great, she thought. Making enemies of Kanjiklub and Grakkus was not her idea of a notable reputation.

She looked through her scope again. Suddenly, she caught the blur of a fast-moving figure weaving between the flotsam and jetsam of the port. 

The Mandalorian.

She followed his movement through the scope, watching as the red-armoured figure deftly took down groups of assailants, pairing his attacks with blaster shots and devastating blows. Riis smiled unconsciously as she watched. He was good – mesmerizing, really. She couldn’t deny that she was impressed. 

For Riis, watching the Mandalorian fight was like watching a story unfold. Combat to her people was a revered method of communication. And her training allowed her to see much more beyond his technique: The economy of his movements paired with his swiftness spoke of intense training. But deeper than that, every punch, jab, knee and dodge whispered a tale she could not yet fully read – a story surfacing about knife-edged discipline laced with suppressed sorrow. What of exactly, she didn’t know: It would take a hand-to-hand duel between them for her to see more. 

The rest of the crew, emboldened by his lead, came out of hiding and joined him in the fray. There were half a dozen more, sneaking out from their hiding places. Riis shot down half of them just before the last few ducked out of range. She quickly grabbed her comlink. 

“Mando,” she said, “Three hostiles at your six.” 

Riis watched him spin around and disappear through the containers. She re-oriented her scope in that direction and found him beating down the last one, with the other two splayed motionless on the ground. 

The hostile in his grip seemed unconscious, skin around the eyes turning purple. But the Mandalorian kept going, pummelling the human male into a pulp. His arm kept swinging as the man in his grip lay in a limp heap. Riis watched, horrified, as his movements drove emotion-images of loss, desperation and grief into her mind. 

She knew if she didn’t do something, he would kill the man.

Riis grabbed the comlink, her chest so tight she could hardly say the words.

“Enough,” she rasped. 

The Mandalorian stopped his fist in mid-air, then let it drop. He was breathing heavily when he let go of the man and stepped away. Just as she was about to speak again, Xi’an bounded up to him with animated glee. And she could tell that Xi’an was praising him, the look of bloodlust written plainly on her face. 

Riis lowered her weapon as she pondered what she had just seen and felt. _The darkness._

She’d seen it before, in the galley with Xi’an. She’d also seen it at home: fellow soldiers who lost control, who let their anger and rage consume them. She just didn’t realize the Mandalorian had it in him too, ready to erupt under all that armour. It made her wonder: What exactly was he hiding?

* * *

Gorgo lit a detonator and had the container opened in seconds. Once the smoke cleared, the team found hundreds of camtonos filled with spice. Xi’an was the first to open one to check the goods. She took a deep whiff and her eyes widened.

“It’s the good stuff, alright,” she said with a devious grin.

Ran pushed past her to take a look. “Looks ‘bout right,” he said, taking the lid from her and screwing the camtono shut. “Let’s get ‘er packed up before anyone else shows up.”

The crew agreed and moved swiftly to load several hover crates with camtonos. Riis stayed on watch, walking around the container as the crew worked. She was making her way back around to the doors when she heard the Mandalorian speaking low, threatening. Riis stayed hidden, listening.

“Double-crossing thief!”

Another voice. Male, deep. Gorgo. “I dunno what you’re talking about, Mando.” There was no reply, only a series of dull thuds and grunts. 

“I saw you fill up a satchel of spice.”

Riis peered from around the corner, just catching the Mandalorian holding the big Nikto by the neck, throwing a hard punch at Gorgo’s face. The large Nikto yelled out in pain, blood streaming from his nose.

Xi’an draped herself around the Mandalorian’s shoulders with a sneer on her face. “That’s it, Mando. Give him what he deserves. Why let the world walk all over you when it’s stolen so much?”

The Mandalorian’s helmet angled dangerously before delivering several fast blows to Gorgo’s gut until blood bubbled from his mouth. He stopped when the large Nikto finally slumped over, groaning.

“Well now, doesn’t that feel good?” exulted Xi’an. 

The Mandalorian gave Gorgo one last kick to the side. “Yes.”

“There’s nothing wrong with feeling good, now is there?” she said, slithering back up to him. 

The scene disgusted Riis. The Mandalorian’s appetite for violence seemed to have multiplied during the skirmish, and now Xi’an, delighted in this discovery, was driving him further into its embrace. 

Riis decided it was time to quit hiding and announce her presence. Stepping from her hiding spot, she made her way into view, cradling her rifle, finger on the trigger. She was careful to walk slowly and adroitly before placing herself between them and the injured Gorgo. 

The Mandalorian and the Twi’lek watched as she approached. Riis saw the sneer on Xi’an’s face but nothing, of course, on the Mandalorian whose face was always concealed behind the mask. Even so, there was no mistake that the air was swollen with tension.

Riis settled into a firm stance, gently aiming the rifle toward them. “Well, team,” she said, putting acidic emphasis on the last word, “There’s work to be done.”

She moved her gaze to the Mandalorian, concentrating her face into a mask to stare him down through the visor. She didn’t know what to expect – if he would back down or continue to be controlled by his rage. But her eye caught his cape, the same one he had lent her a few nights before. She remembered the kindness of it – of him – and his scent. How could that same man be standing before her now, his gloves smeared with blood? 

Finally, the Mandalorian turned away, stalking wordlessly into the shipping container. Only Xi’an remained with a self-assured, conspiratorial look on her face.

“Such a party pooper,” Xi’an jeered.

Riis ticked her chin up, rifle still pointed, and said, “Certified.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 6, aka Drunk Mando, Don't Do Anything Stupid.
> 
> Oh, and a wee reminder:  
>  **Pronunciation of OC's name, Solveig Riis:** [soul-vay reese]

The Mandalorian felt untouchable. The others felt it too and celebrated by cracking open a few bottles of booze Qin had snuck aboard the ship.

Ran stuck a straw in one and handed it to the Mandalorian.

“Come on, I know Mandos have their fire water,” he winked. “Drink up.”

The Mandalorian eyed the bottle. He was no stranger to alcohol, but carousing was done within the covert only. But he reminded himself he was no longer with his kind and convinced himself that he deserved the reward. He accepted the drink. 

The others cheered, except for Riis. She was standing in the passageway to the cockpit, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. The look on her face was stone-like, her eyes keen and watching.

At this moment, he didn’t want to care what she thought. He was determined to enjoy himself for once. Lifting the straw under the edge of his helmet, he let it pass to his lips. Ran, Xi’an and Qin roared in approval.

“Bottoms up!” Ran shouted, and the rest of them drained their bottles. 

Under the helmet, the Mandalorian grinned and downed his through the straw swiftly. Ran handed him another and clapped him hard on the back.

“Mando, you kill me! That silent-but-deadly routine, man! Did you guys see ‘im out there?”

Xi’an wiped her mouth with a forearm, revealing a hideous smile beneath. “Yeah,” she breathed. “He beat the living kark out of those guys.”

“ _And_ Gorgo!” snickered Qin.

The crew turned to look at the big Nikto sitting on the crates who was using his cold drink to nurse his bruises. The Mandalorian stared at his bottle. Xi’an gave a mock “tsk” before rounding her attention back to the Mandalorian. 

“You were impressive, Mando,” she said coyly.

“Yeah,” Ran chimed in. “Took down all those guys single-handedly.”

Whether it was the liquor or the praise that kindled his pride, the Mandalorian wasn’t sure. He felt warm. He drank some more. It felt good to be acknowledged, even if Riis took down a good number of assailants. At the covert, everything was a group effort. Individual achievements were not recognized, but valued in terms of the collective. He found he rather liked this attention.

Qin drained his second bottled and picked up a third. “Too bad I missed it, sitting on this boat.”

“Oh brother – it was beautiful!” cooed Xi’an. “So fast and quick and mean. He’d appear out of nowhere – ”

“ – then bam!” finished Ran, “The look on their faces, ha!”

“Like a ghost,” Xi’an added. 

Ran turned his attention to Riis who was just brushing past. “ _You_ saw him,” he laughed. “He was like a kriffin’ machine!”

Riis said nothing, but continued forward. The Mandalorian felt brazen with the liquor pulsing in his veins. He wanted her to praise him, fawn over him – to stroke his ego. So he caught her wrist, pulling her close. Riis was caught by surprise and stumbled into him. 

She landed with her palms against his chest plate, bringing her face-to-visor with the Mandalorian. 

“Don’t,” she said grimly.

He kept his grip on her wrist, enjoying the feeling of her weight, being this close. It seemed – forbidden. He even enjoyed the way Xi’an looked at him – her face smouldering with jealousy. Before he could release her, Riis had pushed herself off of him and snapped her arm away. 

“I’ll be in the cockpit. Someone’s got to get us back in one piece,” she said.

“Pah!” Ran waved his hand at her, as if pushing away an unpleasant smell. He dug out another bottle and began chugging it down, starting up a conversation with Qin.

Xi’an prowled over to him now and handed him another drink. The Mandalorian debated briefly whether or not to take it, already feeling groggy from the first two. It was strong stuff, whatever it was. A third might not be wise, but he wanted to drown the idea that Riis thought he was a karking fool. He took the proffered bottle, but Xi’an kept her grip on it so that his pull would tug her closer to him.

She ended up standing between his knees, looking for a similar invitation. And though the Mandalorian was not firing on all cylinders, he recognized what this was and shifted back, enough to stretch his legs out and fold his ankles. Xi’an, undaunted, took a seat next to him. 

“So _are_ you a ghost?”

The Mandalorian leaned forward and tilted his helmet, “Boo.”

Xi’an giggled. “So scary. And _mysterious_.”

“That’s the point, you know,” he answered, sipping on his drink, “of all this.” He gestured to himself, the armour.

“Don’t you want to be known?” she pried.

The Mandalorian looked at the Twi’lek, her large eyes and white teeth glaring in the harsh light of the cargo bay. She was both terrifying and alluring at the same time, but not in a beautiful way. More like the way danger tempts you to touch it. 

He looked down at his drink, away from her predatory stare. Xi’an mistook this gesture as a yes to her question. 

“Come on, you must have a name."

The Mandalorian shifted slightly. His armour was suddenly feeling too heavy. Her proximity was too much – her questions, too personal. _Who was he?_ Wouldn’t he like to know. The liquor in his veins buzzed, his head throbbing. He felt like a jerk.

“Who are you?" she pressed.

The Mandalorian stood, shedding Xi’an from his person. The dizziness surprised him, and he braced himself against the wall as it passed. 

“No one,” he rasped.

The Mandalorian turned his heel and stumbled down the passageway to the cockpit.

* * *

  
He found her sitting in the pilot’s seat, her feet up on the dash and leaning back so her head looked up to the stars above. She looked relaxed for once.

On Nar Shadaa, Riis had been standing fiercely between him and Gorgo – the same Nikto she had shot at in Ran’s docking bay – rifle cocked and ready. And when he had finished removing the last camtonos, he found Riis handing Gorgo a rag and helping him up. She was expressionless as she did it, but the Nikto had smiled at her sheepishly in thanks.

For someone with such an emotionless facade, she had a hidden capacity for compassion even to a brute like Gorgo, and he was intrigued.

The Mandalorian misjudged a step and lurched forward, catching himself on the entryway. Riis spun around in her seat, body tense and spine erect.

“You're can't be in here like this,” she said tersely.

“Who says?”

“Rules of piloting.”

“Kriff the rules.”

He swayed heavily by the doorway, slamming a hand on the frame to keep his balance. All of a sudden, he found Riis beside him, steady hands on his torso. It was the second time tonight her face was this close to him. Maybe he was imaging things. She looked – concerned. Before he could read into it more, she guided him into the co-pilot seat. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, hands to helmet. Riis returned to her seat.

“I’m sorry about before,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.”

Riis was silent for a moment, looking him over with an analytical gaze.

“What're you running from, Mando?”

“I don’t run,” his voice, knife-edged despite the heaviness on his tongue.

“I'm not accusing you of cowardice. But you're running like a man haunted.”

From behind the helmet, the Mandalorian pressed his lips together. He could not form the words to explain himself, that constant ache. He didn’t realize how long he had been silent, only that Riis had shifted forward, leaning toward him. 

“Hey, anyone in there?” 

He scoffed. “What do you think?”

“Not sure. But you’re an idiot, that’s for sure,”

The Mandalorian flexed and unflexed a hand. He laughed ruefully. “Didn’t you like my handiwork on Nar Shadaa?”

“No,” she replied flatly. Then softer, “What happened out there?”

He said nothing. Again, he could not explain how he had felt during the job. He wasn’t a man of feeling, but of action. What was he supposed to say?  
  
“You lost control. Twice. Why?”

“I didn’t.”

“You beat those guys to a pulp. Smashed in Gorgo’s face.”

“They had it coming.”

“What about honor and all that? I know enough about Mandalorians to know this is not ‘The Way’.”

“I – You can’t – Don’t you quote that at me!” He stabbed a finger toward her, but let it hang in the air. 

It surprised him when Riis slipped from her seat to kneel in front of him. Still resting his elbows on his knees, he was curled forward. He would have shifted back if he wasn’t so curious about what she was about to do. Slowly, she raised her hands and placed them on top of his pauldrons. He felt the slight weight of them press upon his shoulders. Her eyes had changed; they looked open, inviting. 

“That's not you,” she whispered, as one speaks lovingly to a child.

The Mandalorian was surprised by her tenderness. The change in her face stirred something deep in his gut, as though he realized for the first time that she was exposing herself to him - not in a lewd way - but that she was allowing him to see her true self. That perhaps she had her own armour that she would shed in secret, for him.

But this same realization troubled him, for it made him all the more aware that he could not do the same for her. The Creed had made that impossible. The armour could never be removed; in fact, The Creed bound him to it like a marriage contract, armour and flesh made one. The thought – and more possibly the alcohol – made his head spin, and he buried his helmet into his hands. 

“How do you know who I am? I can't even take this kriffing thing off.” He hung his head, like the helmet was too heavy. “I’m trapped.”

Riis moved her hands up to cradle his own that were clutching the sides of the helmet. His breath hitched with the sudden thought that she might try to remove it. And for a split second – feeling both horror and thrill – he wondered if he should let her. 

But nothing happened.

“You took The Creed, remember?” Her response was like she had read his mind.  
  
Laughing bitterly, he replied, “Yeah, I swore it. I sealed _everything_ away with it. But I could break it. It’d be simple.”

“You’re drunk. This is no time to make life-changing decisions. Do it, and you’ll regret it.”

“Maybe I won't. Maybe then I won’t be such a kriffing mess.”

“Then why did you swear it? You must have had good reason to commit to this way of life.”

The Mandalorian took a deep breath. It sounded more like a gasp. “I thought it was the answer.”

“To what?”

He hung his head again. He mumbled, “To the way I felt.”

His head was swimming and his mouth was dry. He didn’t want to talk anymore. What he had just revealed was more than he had said to anyone in his entire life – and it scared him. 

But Riis said nothing and stayed with him in that customary silence of hers, her hands resting on her lap. How he wished that he could hold them, gloveless, and feel them in his bare hands. But now she was getting up, standing in front of him. 

“You need to sleep this off. Come on,” she shoved a hand at him, which he accepted, standing up unsteadily, eventually staggering forward and catching himself on the edge of the nav controls. 

“Woah, easy,” Riis said, slinging his arm around her shoulder and placing a steadying hand on his chest. 

She led him to the one private room behind the cockpit and gradually lowered him onto the small cot. When he just sat there, she repressed a chuckle and pushed him gently on the shoulder to make him lie down. He obeyed and settled on his back, watching her fling open a coarse woolen blanket and throw it over him. He wondered what she’d say if he asked her to stay with him. It was a stupid thought, he knew, the alcohol making him think stupid things. But his thoughts were a jumble, and his mind was slipping into darkness. But before the pull of sleep nearly dragged him under, he realized what she was doing: tucking the blanket over his shoulders and hesitantly doing so around his neck. He grabbed her fingers just below the helmet and held them tight.

The words someone else had asked him – who was it? – echoed in his mind. His words came out sluggish as he repeated it to her. “Who are you?”

“Riis.”

“No, first name.”

The cloud of darkness descended as he heard her speak, her voice still gentle, but distant:

“Solveig.”

* * *

The next morning, he had never felt worse. 

_Solveig_. The Mandalorian said her name to himself in the fresher. Felt the sibilant consonant slide from his teeth, glide around his tongue, and pause mid-way scraping his bottom lip before opening the throat like an exhale. 

This, he remembered from last night. Her name, the way she looked at him, spoke to him. It confused him that he wanted her approval and nothing to do with her. She stood for everything he was running away from: Rules, expectations, honour. 

_Honour._

He played with the word in his mouth, this time feeling only bitterness spill across his tongue. He opened his mouth against the spray of water to flush it out. 

Why should one word dictate his every move, every decision – his life? Wasn’t it enough that he had sworn The Creed and dedicated himself to The Way? He thought swearing The Creed would quell the ache in his being, the bitterness that gnawed from the inside out. Ten years, and it hadn’t. 

The previous night’s revelry was a haze. He remembered the feeling of being ruthless and powerful. But in bleary retrospect, he felt ashamed of his actions and worst of all, baring his insecurities to Riis. He felt that he had crossed a line his _Buir_ told him to respect – that Mandalorians need only their armour to speak for them; that everything inside was to be left private.

But what was he supposed to do when everything inside was about to burst? 

He thought of her gentleness, the way Riis revealed it to him in the lulling hum of the cockpit. Her brown eyes looking at him as though she could really see him. He remembered the softness of her hands even through his gloves. Heat bloomed low in his abdomen and travelled downward.

Gods, he wanted to kiss her. 

He closed his eyes in the fresher and pushed his head under the spray. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And cheers to a little Mando POV. :)
> 
> This should have been a fun, easy chapter to write, but it wasn't. Tbh, it's hard to write a younger, brasher Mando without giving up the mystique of the older one that we see in the series. Anyhow, the liquor loosened him up a bit, and I hope you enjoyed reading it!  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

The return from Mordagon had been quick, but it had felt much longer. With the job done and credits in her account, Riis was glad to be back at the outpost.

After that moment in the cockpit, Riis had purposefully avoided the Mandalorian – a difficult feat considering the size of the ship. But it wasn’t because she disliked him; in fact, it was because she found herself feeling the exact opposite.

She had never felt this way about anyone. 

Kriff, she thought. Soft for a Mandalorian. _An idiot of a Mandalorian_.

Riis was in her quarters now, hastily plugging account details into her data pad and sending credits to the care facility that looked after her sister. The sum had turned out to be more than expected, so Riis paid up to the month and saved the rest just in case.

_Always be ready for the unexpected._

The voice of her drill sergeant echoed in her thoughts. Riis sighed. Great advice for combat, but what was she supposed to do when the unexpected was an _emotion_? 

Sgt. Kav Bashra was a hard woman and the only mother-figure she had ever known. She would’ve scoffed at it all: Ran, his crew, the Mandalorian – her feelings for him. 

Riis felt a flush rise up her cheeks. Bashra was the one who taught her everything – including what it meant to be a woman of their homeworld. 

_Our kind do not smile, cajole, bat our eyes at men. Only fools go to battle using feminine wiles. We are dangerous. We are capable. They will always underestimate us, but they will regret it._

It was like a creed, even though they never called it as such. Bashra had taught her this; encounters with handsy men in the Outer Rim confirmed it. 

But of love? Nobody taught her what she should do when it came to matters of the heart. She was only taught to fight.

If Bashra were here, she would have dismissed the Mandalorian with disgust. The fighting style she taught focused on agility and movement; anything that hampered this should be avoided – namely, the overuse of armour. The Mandalorian was exactly that. 

Riis could hear her Bashra now: _Armour is for soft-bodied mollusks. Crush them, and they ooze out. Become the armour, and no one can remove it._

Closing her eyes, Riis recalled the hours she spent as a child standing in the bitter cold, forbidden to break her will or her expression. _Harden yourself, or they will gut you._

It was a mirthless childhood.

She thought of the Mandalorian and what she knew of his kind. How he must have been raised in a similar environment. When she saw him lose control on Nar Shadaa, she recognized a comrade under pressure. Those raised in warrior cultures were not given an outlet to deal with their emotions, while leaving the homeworld would only act as a superficial salve offering a host of bitter choices.

But could she finally undo the ruthless training that locked away every feeling and emotion inside of her, and set them free? Riis wasn't sure she could. It was grafted into her from the time she could walk. For now, she thought, she would hold on to it. Outside of her world, her training was the one true thing that would keep her safe - and support the care that Alva very much needed.

Someday, maybe her own needs would come before duty. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mando and the crew shootin' the crap (literally and figuratively)

The Mandalorian aimed a smoking blaster at a service droid. 

_BLAM._

The droid fell in a clatter on the floor, next to another he had just shot.

Ran, just passing by, bellowed, “Cut that out! You gonna pay for those?”

“Deduct them from my pay,” the Mandalorian said, blowing the head off another. Ran scowled and waved his hand.

Riis had been distant for the last few days since arriving back at the outpost. He couldn’t blame her; he had made a fool of himself after Nar Shadaa. And his own embarrassment at having shared too much (and drinking too much) had kept him from approaching her.

The Mandalorian lifted his blaster again. Before he could shoot, Qin and Xi’an sauntered over. 

“Well, Mando. Hate droids, do you?” Qin said.

_BLAM._

“You could say that,” the Mandalorian replied coldly.

They watched the smoke rising from the destroyed droid. 

“Or is this your idea of fun?” asked Xi’an. “What _do_ Mandos do for fun?”

“Drink and kill things,” barked Qin. 

“Oh, but that’s what _we_ do.” Xi’an giggled. The two of them continued to banter, while the Mandalorian aimed at the last droid.

“Then we must be Mandos too!”

“This is the Way.”

“This is the Way.”

_BLAM BLAM BLAM._

The siblings hushed. The droid had been shot into the air and nailed twice more before it scattered in pieces across the floor.

“This is the Way,” the Mandalorian repeated, holstering his blaster. The siblings exploded into laughter.

“So, is there more to this ‘Way’ than blasting droids and hiding your pretty mug?” Xi’an said, giddy.

“Ha! You keep playin’ with fire, Sis.”

“There is,” the Mandalorian replied simply.

“Then wouldn’t you care to show me?” she asked coyly. “Clearly I need to be _educated_.”

Qin snorted. “Yeah, Mando, like what happens when you take a girl home?”

“Armour on . . .," whispered Xi’an in his earpiece, “or off?”

The Mandalorian shrugged her off, clearing his throat, “None of your business.”

“Ah refused again, Xi’an,” laughed the brother. “She got bad luck with the boys. Don’t know when to give up.”

“Shut up, Qin,” she hissed. “I’ll have you know the last one gave me his transmission code.”

“Oh sod it! The Zeltron? He ghosted you,” he laughed, “cuz he found out you were a crazy bitch!”

Xi’an snarled, then winked, at her brother. 

Ignoring the Twi’lek siblings, the Mandalorian’s gaze wandered to two figures at the other end of the bay. It was Riis, with Gorgo following closely behind with a pile of crates in his arms. He couldn’t help turning his attention to them.

The other two followed his gaze and snickered.

“Ever since she was nice to him on Nar Shadaa, he’s been her little lap dog,” jeered Xi’an.  
  
“Follows her ‘round like a pet,” her brother snickered. “Poor Gorgo. All he needed was a little _love_.” 

Xi’an twittered. “Ha! Love isn’t all he needs.”

“Could use a few more credits in _that_ bucket,” Qin tapped his temple.

“Ha!” she cackled, nearly falling over herself. Qin burst into laughter, the two of them finding themselves so funny. 

“You know what _I_ could use?” Qin said, catching his breath.

“What?”

“Food! Let’s get some grub.”

Xi’an clapped her hands, then hooked herself around the Mandalorian’s arm. “You coming, Mando?” 

He pointed at his helmet. 

“Oh, riiiiight,” she drawled, pretending to remember.

“We could close our eyes!” Qin returned. 

“What a mess you’d make, Brother!” 

The two kept bantering as they made their way out of the docking bay. On and on they went until their voices faded deep in the belly of Ran’s outpost.

The Mandalorian was glad of their departure. His attention returned to Riis and noticed now that she was alone. Suddenly, there was a bleep and a squeak and the Mandalorian spotted another service droid attempting to hide. 

_BLAM._

The noise rang through the docking bay. He lifted his blaster to see his mark blown to smithereens. In the distance, he saw Riis turn to look at him – hands on her hips, head tilted curiously. 

She paused for a moment before making her way over to him. The Mandalorian swallowed. They hadn’t spoken since his drunken moment in the cockpit. He felt an unfamiliar heat rise in his face.

When she was a few feet away, she pulled out her blaster. He lowered his but kept it in hand, just in case. Then she stopped and eyed the mess of droid parts on the floor, eyebrows raised.

“Target practice,” he said, answering an unspoken question.

Riis said nothing but produced a spherical object from her jacket. A training remote. She bounced it in her palm and thrust it in the air. “Want more?”

* * *

  
Riis and the Mandalorian played a few rounds to see who had the quicker draw. The Mandalorian proved to be faster by a hair. Inwardly, he chuckled. Riis looked unfazed. 

But if he didn’t know better, he’d say she was ruffled by the loss. Her eyes bore holes into his helmet when she challenged him to an accuracy game – the winner scored the most hits. 

“Best two out of three,” she said, as she cranked the training remote to its highest setting.

The Mandalorian smiled beneath the helmet. He shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that she had a competitive streak. It was cute, actually, but he didn’t dare say that to her. 

He bowed in mock courtesy, motioning to her, “Loser goes first.” 

She shot him a look that looked cool on the surface but really meant, _Shut up_.

The training remote fired up and whizzed around at lightning speed. Finally, it launched a series of smaller balls at different times, speeds and directions. Riis hit all of them in seconds. 

The Mandalorian tipped his helmet in regard for her success and took his turn. 

“Turn off your HUD,” she quipped from the sidelines.

“It’s not on,” he said watching the ball. “And quit trying to distract me.”

The smaller targets released and the Mandalorian hit them all. 

“Tie,” he said.

“Not for long,” she murmured, taking aim through her blaster’s sights.

They continued until reaching three turns each. Neither had lost a round. They kept going, the cracks of their blasters echoing tirelessly through the docking bay. Ten rounds later, and they were still tied. 

Riis stepped up for the eleventh round. The training remote whizzed around again, then began releasing its targets. Just before she could squeeze the trigger, the Mandalorian purposefully bumped her elbow, causing her to miss. 

The look on her face was _not_ expressionless. 

He backed up. She flung her blaster around to point it at him, her eyebrows furrowed, her lips slightly parted. Then – 

She punched him on the pauldron, shoving him back a step.

“Sore loser,” she said with a minute smile.

“I’m not the one who’s sore,” he laughed, pointing at her hand. She was clutching it quietly without expression. 

“You’re disqualified,” she returned, still covering her reddened knuckle.

The Mandalorian put his hands up resignedly, still chuckling. “I know. But we were gonna go on forever.”

Riis huffed. Meanwhile, the Mandalorian reached over and put his hands over hers. She stiffened, but he held on to them. He doubted this would appease her. 

She pushed him in the chest instead. 

Nope. 

“No-good nerf herder.”

“Calling names part of your training?”

“Never said I'd been trained,” she answered, growing quiet.

“It’s clear as day, Riis. You're no Outer Rim pirate. Technique, style, finesse – you were taught these.”

She shrugged. “It’s how I was raised.”

_Raised, trained – same thing._

It seemed the both of them had had a similar upbringing. Everything was war, combat, weapons. No part of his childhood – other than his brief life with his parents – was exempt from training. He remembered the relentlessness of it. The time his Buir locked him in a room full of combat remotes. He’d stay until he had completed one round unscathed, and he came out forty rounds later exhausted, limping and bruised. And this was before he had earned his armour.

Still, he had stayed. He wondered this about Riis.

“Did you have a choice?” he asked.

“No,” she said quietly. “Conscription was mandatory. You?”

The Mandalorian took a seat on a pile of crates, pretending to check his blaster. 

“I had a choice,” he murmured.

“Did you, though?”

She looked at him now – really looked at him. They had both been children trained for war. And he knew she understood him. Understood that if he hadn’t accepted the Mandalorian way, he’d be alone, peopleless. There had never been a real choice.

He couldn’t bring himself to say it, so he only shook his head.

“But you have a choice now,” she said softly, taking a seat next to him. The Mandalorian noticed how close she was. “What kind of man you want to be.”

It was the same question his _Buir_ had asked him years ago. The Mandalorian looked away, not able to think clearly as he felt her body heat seep through his layers. 

“You seem to think you know me,” he said finally.

“Do I?” she leaned a little into him. He wasn’t imagining things. He could feel the gentle weight behind it. 

“You said it that night in the cockpit. You said this wasn't me. What did you mean by it?”

Riis bumped his elbow with her own. "That you're a fool with a death wish.”

"Huh,” he said, looking down at her. To his surprise, she reached out and closed her hand over his. She didn’t move, and neither did he. 

"You’re a good man – but a little hot-headed. Cruelty is not in your nature, but it could be if you let it.”

“More wise words from your homeworld?”

“No. They’re _my_ words.”

He was quiet. He saw in her a strength beyond training, drills and rule-following. She was a woman who had the skills to take down an entire squadron of Stormtroopers, but one he knew possessed a well-guarded compassion that only a few would know. That few now included him. 

To say he was in awe of her was an understatement. 

Then she squeezed his hand.

“Make sure you clean up your mess,” she said, before leaving him to his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like feels. More to come!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little sparring.  
> Let's see how this all turns out. :)

“He was tryin’ to play hero,” Qin said. “The guard on Parveen wouldn’t let up. Even after we killed his comrades, he came packin' heat. Like he was a match for _us_.”

“Always someone who tries,” Gorgo grunted, digging a knife tip under his nail.

“Bonus points for dyin’ on the job, hey?” Qin cackled. “How he begged for his life. The standard kriff 'bout a wife and kids . . . no wonder I stuck a knife in 'im and gave it a good _twist_.”

He mimicked the motion of stabbing and twisting in one movement.

Qin, Xi’an and Gorgo were gathered in the hangar doing maintenance on Ran’s ship. Qin was supposed to be welding a patch on the hull with Gorgo assisting. Neither were on-task, nor did they have a reason to. The last few weeks had been dull hanging around the outpost with not much to do.

Meanwhile, Xi’an wasn’t paying attention to either of them. Her attention was focused on the other side of the ship, where Riis and the Mandalorian were sorting out the equipment locker.

_The two of them, thick as thieves._

She twirled a butterfly knife in her fingers, flipping it back and forth with deadly efficiency.

_Slice, slice, slice._

It hadn’t taken her long to notice the change between those two. How they were often together, working on projects or discussing strategies for future jobs. And how the Mandalorian, who had once enjoyed Xi’an’s flattery, was now shrugging her off like grease on a pan.

_Slice, slice, slice._

Irritation crept beneath her blue skin like an itch. The Mandalorian had been an amusing addition to their crew. Unbreakable on the outside but scalding on the inside. Like a child obsessed with a scab, she wanted to pick at him – and watch him ooze. He had been so much fun on their last job.

And that do-gooder Riis was turning him a stodgy old codger.

* * *

Riis tossed a chunk of gnarled metal at the Mandalorian.

“Take a look at this,” she said.

“What is it?”

“Piece of battle droid from the Clone Wars.”

He dropped it with a clatter. Riis turned to look at him, only to find him kicking the piece into the trash pile.

“Not interested?” she tested.

“The past can stay in the past,” he replied tersely.

“History’s important,” she shrugged. “It teaches us how to make good choices in the future.”

The Mandalorian changed the subject. “What’s all this junk doing in the equipment locker?”

“Beats me,” Riis replied. “But there’s no room in here for actual equipment. It’ll be good to have some space for important stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Weapons of course.”

“Of course.”

Riis had filled a large rolling bin with trash and was about to push it toward a compactor when she saw Xi’an and Qin sauntering over. Xi’an had a mischievous grin spread across her face.

“This is very boring,” Xi’an tutted at the Mandalorian. “All that armour spent on tidying up. How about a little sparring to get the blood going? You and Qin, hand-to-hand.”

She pushed her slightly startled brother toward the Mandalorian.

“Arright, yeah,” Qin agreed, warming up to the idea.

Riis watched them warily. The Mandalorian returned her gaze, as though looking for an opinion. Riis shrugged.

The Mandalorian tilted his helmet with a sigh. “Sure,” he muttered, dusting off his gloves.

Qin rubbed his blue hands together and assumed a fighting stance with fists tight against his face. The Mandalorian took his: arms lower, hands slightly open. Xi’an gave them the go-ahead, and the two fighters circled each other.

Qin was shorter than the Mandalorian, but stockier. His muscles rippled under the harsh light of the hangar. The other was broader in the shoulders with a lean frame and longer arms. They each took turns taking trial jabs.

“Come on,” shouted Xi’an. “Quit pussy footing around, and get on with it!”

Qin bared his teeth and struck. The Mandalorian dodged. The Twi’lek approached again, only this time the Mandalorian caught his forearm, twisted it and kneed him in the stomach. Qin hugged his abdomen and spat on the ground.

Suddenly, Qin charged and sent them both flying to the ground, the Mandalorian landing hard on his back. But this didn’t slow him down: The Mandalorian kicked up his legs and hooked them around Qin’s neck.

Riis watched, bemused, knowing who would win this fight. She knew from the beginning who’d be the better brawler.

Still, the Twi’lek remained pinned down, clawing at anything he could get his hands on. It didn’t take long for Qin to tap out. The Mandalorian released him and stood holding out a hand. Qin only scowled and slunk away in defeat.

Xi’an laughed at her brother and lauded the Mandalorian worshipfully.

“Well _that_ was fun!” she giggled.

“It was – ” he paused, “constructive.”

Xi’an rolled her eyes. “Whatever. You liked it,” she teased. “It’s _my_ turn now.”

To Riis, the Mandalorian looked wary. If she read him correctly, he was well aware of how Xi’an provoked him, and likely, he was unsure of his ability to control himself if she managed to hit the right buttons.

But then, Xi’an’s gaze skipped over him and landed on Riis.

“Come, little mouse,” Xi’an called out. “Let’s have a little girl-on-girl action,” she winked. Riis suppressed a sigh. This time, _she_ looked at the Mandalorian, and _he_ shrugged.

Normally, Riis would have declined any invitation to spar with the crew. And it wasn’t because she didn’t enjoy it. She enjoyed it _too_ much. Sparring sessions with comrades was the most revered social activity on her homeworld. As strange as it sounded to an outsider, combat in her culture was the only means to truly know someone. But nobody on Ran’s crew knew this – what she was and where she had come from - all because of Ran’s policy: No questions.

And Xi’an had been a thorn in her side ever since she joined the crew. Riis put down the crate in her hands. Perhaps it was time to _get to know_ this Twi’lek a little better.

Xi’an gasped mockingly, “She answers!”

Riis kept her thoughts to herself. Silence was her way. Her people’s way.

The Twi’lek had already lowered herself like a Loth-cat ready to pounce.

“No knives,” was Riis’ only stipulation.

“Of course,” Xi’an said with caustic sweetness, opening her hands to show them empty.

Riis looked over at the Mandalorian who had tilted his head as though to say, _You really want to do this?_

Riis gave him a curt nod and staggered her stance, two arms forward with palms open. The Mandalorian nodded back before counting them down to begin.

Xi’an, of course, made the first move. Riis had expected it, having watched her approach to, well, everything. Reckless. Impassioned. Desperate. Riis had only to side step to avoid the blow. This only aggravated the Twi’lek, who deftly aimed a knee to the side. She didn’t hit her mark, however, as Riis twisted away quickly.

Xi’an snarled and pounced with a fast series of punches, but Riis countered them all. In a matter of minutes, Xi’an had attempted fifty-odd blows which hit empty air or had been blocked each time. Turning purple in the face, Xi’an huffed for air as Riis barely broke a sweat.

Then the sing of metal. Riis dodged. The blade sunk into one of the crates behind.

“We agreed no knives,” Riis said evenly.

Xi’an cocked her head and smiled, “Oops.”

The Mandalorian edged toward the circle, placing his body in front of Riis as a shield.

“Oh, protecting _her_ , are we?”

“Mando,” Riis commanded. “Move your metal ass.”

He turned to stare at her, as if in disbelief. Shaking his head, he moved out of the way while giving Riis a glance that looked like, _I hope you know what you’re doing._

Xi’an snarled again, her face flashing rage. More daggers.

Riis moved fast, skirting every attempt with concise, exact movement – until she was caught. One of the daggers landed into her shoulder.

 _Huh_ , she thought, pulling out the blade. _Time to wrap this up._

Riis wasted no time in closing in. With a quick thrust of her arm, she disarmed her opponent and delivered one, precise blow to the solar plexus. Xi’an dropped to the ground.

As Riis watched her opponent, she let the impressions from the fight speak. All of Xi’an’s movements combined revealed a storm of emotions: Jealousy, bloodlust, rage. And yet. _Something else_. There was always something else.

Beneath the obvious bluster, there hid a set of more complex emotions: abandonment, disappointment, betrayal. Then clearer: A desperate need to protect herself.

For Riis, their martial dance was a revelation of shadow-like memory – one of Xi’an having to defend herself against a predator, someone who was family. Riis looked at the angry Twi’lek once more and suddenly felt pity. Solveig could not despise her then.

A touch interrupted her thoughts.

“You okay?” The Mandalorian asked, gloved hands touching her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, still feeling the rush of battle-knowledge she had just absorbed.

“You seem – off.”

Xi’an rolled her eyes, “She’s _fine_ , Mando. You act like she’s a fragile thing, but we both know she’s not.” She turned to Riis and gave her a sly wink. “Innit right, Riis? Gotta be tough to have a permanent rod rammed up your arse like that.”

“Just like it had to be tough," scoffed the Mandalorian, "to have your ass handed to you like that.” 

Secretly, Riis fought back the urge to laugh. She didn’t know which was funnier: the petty insults of this Rylothian space pirate or a Mandalorian coming to her rescue.

Xi’an gave him a look filled with daggers.

“Look, maybe the two of you should spar it out,” Riis said, moving past Xi’an. “But then, it’s a little harder to stab someone in the back who’s covered in armour.”

She didn’t catch Xi’an’s face as she passed, but if she did, she would have seen a deep scowl set in the Twi’lek’s face. 

Riis grabbed the trash bin she had been filling and left the docking bay and the two of them behind.

* * *

“What the _hell_ is wrong with you?” rasped the Mandalorian, a few paces behind Xi’an.

“What?” Xi’an hissed, spinning around.

“You sunk a knife into Riis!”

“Your _girlfriend_?” she sneered. “You needn’t worry. T’was just a _wee_ one.” She added a pout, index and thumb squeezing together.

The Mandalorian grabbed her arm and pulled her close.

“Mm, playing rough now, Mando?” she said coyly. Her face broke into a menacing smile. “I _like_ it.”

“Stop it,” he rumbled, nearly shaking her.

“Stop _what_ , Mando?”

“ _This_.”

Xi’an parted her red lips in a coquettish _Oh_. “But I thought you liked to play.”

Releasing her arm, the Mandalorian said nothing, but glared at her from behind the visor. He found her infuriating, maddening – impossible.

She continued, “I know how you look at me, how you wish you could take it all off. How you want to _touch_ me.”

The Mandalorian froze. Xi’an approached him like an animal stalking its prey. Gazing at him through lowered lids, Xi’an slid the neck of her tunic off her shoulder, baring perfect, blue flesh.

“Come now,” she purred. “I know you want to.”

She snaked her way closer, her face daringly close to his visor. He didn’t move a muscle, fearing that if he did, he might take her up on the offer.

“I can help you,” she implored. “Help you do _anything_ you want – ”

A part of him wanted to know the bare touch of another being – to remember what it was like when his parents were alive, when the people he loved had faces. Here was someone so close and so _willing_.

He started when Xi’an closed her hands around his helmet, but he didn't move. He was well aware that every second he waited led to the end of his way of life. 

He looked into her eyes then, wondering if this path would lead to the freedom and fulfillment he longed for – but all he saw was cruelty.

_It’s all a game._

He pushed her away. She hissed.

“Get away from me,” he growled.

Xi’an’s jaw jutted forward. “You’ll be back,” she said, then added leeringly, “and I’ll be waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a bit of jealousy to make things interesting. 
> 
> Btw - Thank you to those who have left comments. Feel free to drop me some any time! I really appreciate them. I've got a lot more chapters planned in my head and knowing ppl are reading this helps me to keep going. :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cozy times. 
> 
> Because Covid sucks, and we just need fluff.  
> (But it IS part of the plot. Really.)

The _Razor Crest_ was silent as it plunged through hyperspace. Hours before, the crew had loaded the Mandalorian’s ship and set off for their next job in the Mustafar system.

A hologram transmission had come in from one of Ran’s old associates, a spice runner named Eker Balett. Said he had hired a smuggler to transport a shipment of rare Glitterstim spice, but transit had stalled. He had tried hailing the ship, but to no avail. Something had gone wrong.

“It’s just floatin’ around Mustafar like a sitting duck,” Balett had said. “Ran, I need you to get to it before anyone else does. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Qin had received the transmission, and Ran was away on an errand with his ship, so the Mandalorian had agreed to take the _Crest_.

But after launching from the outpost, the Mandalorian had disappeared into the cockpit after sternly insisting that he be the only one to touch the nav controls. The rest of the crew were happy to oblige. They stayed in the cargo hold chewing the cud as they normally did en route to jobs.

They had been in hyperspace for a while now, and the crew had found their own corners to hole up for a snooze. Only, Riis wasn’t tired. Her mind was occupied with the ship and, more notably, its pilot.

From what she had seen of the _Razor Crest_ , she knew it was a pre-Imperial gunship, which meant it was undetectable to the New Republic network. Powerful deflector shields and double blaster canons provided ample protection, while twin engines made it as fast and as maneuverable as a fighter craft. On the inside, the cargo hold was simple and utilitarian, containing an arms locker, a vacc-tube, a ladder to the cockpit and not much else.

To another eye, the _Crest_ gave no hints about its owner. To Riis, however, his choice of a fast and mean little ship showed his intelligence while the bare nature of its interior revealed a solitary life.

Moving silently through the cargo hold, she ascended the ladder and landed behind the Mandalorian.

“Get out,” he growled, without turning his head.

Not unlike a possessive Bantha mother guarding her young, she mused.

“Just me,” said Riis lightly. “But I can go if you like.”

He turned around then. “I thought you were – never mind. Please, stay.”

Riis leaned against the entryway, taking in the Mandalorian at the helm of his ship surrounded by controls and blinking lights.

“You like it?” he gestured around him.

Riis hummed. “It’s fast, precise, economical – a lot like you.”

The Mandalorian chuckled. “Come here,” he said, stretching out a hand.

The hairs on the back of Riis’ neck stood. She’d had invitations like this before – from her drill sergeant back home. Bashra would say the same thing if she picked Riis for a walloping during lessons.

But _this_ – this was different. The Mandalorian’s voice was rich, warm and inviting. After a moment, she obeyed, uncrossing her arms and walking the few paces needed to close the distance.

She took his hand, and from beneath the hairs of her arms rose goosebumps. He pulled her in closer until she was standing between his knees.

She stood awkwardly, not quite sure what to do. He tugged her hand again, and this time, used his other hand to guide her hips down to his lap.

_So._

Riis’ mouth felt dry. No training on her homeworld had instructed her on what to do in a situation like this. She could identify the myriad places on him where armour did not protect him; she could have him on the floor of his own cockpit and un-helmeted if she wished.

_But._

This was not _that kind_ of situation.

The Mandalorian cleared his throat.

“This . . . okay?”

Back home, she wouldn’t have let any man this close without fighting him first. But _this_ – the pressure of his hand on her waist and the intimacy of it – was more than okay.

“You’re still breathing, so yes,” she said quietly.

He chuckled. “What about this?” He ran a slow circle from mid-thigh to her hip.

It was a foreign sensation, being touched like this by someone else, but it was . . . nice, comforting. Without thinking, she placed her hands on his chest, feeling the hardness of the armour underneath. She let her head drift closer to his visor, until she caught the sound of his breath.

He had let out a sigh – she heard and felt it as he exhaled. The muscles in his body, once rigid, were now growing lax. She sank in a little, moulding more into him.

“I’ve forgotten what it’s like,” she said after a few minutes, “to be close to someone.”

The Mandalorian clasped his free hand over one of her own. “You must belong to someone,” he said, peering through the curtain of hair that partially hid her face. “What about your family?”

Riis lifted her head and dared to catch his eyes, wherever they were. She couldn’t hide the sadness on her face; the look reflected back through his visor.

“I have a sister,” she said a little thickly.

“Will you tell me about her?”

“Her name is Alva,” she began. “She and I were taken as children to be trained in the military corps. Alva – she suffered a brain injury a year ago . . . she lives in a care facility on Coruscant.”

“And that’s why you joined Ran’s crew. To pay for her care,” he intuited.

“Yes,” she replied.

The Mandalorian tilted his head as he thought. “Why didn’t your homeworld provide for her care – in honour of her service?”

Riis looked down, watching the rise and fall of his chest. “My world does not value the weak. They discard us when we’re no longer useful.”

“That’s not right,” he said, shaking his head.

“That’s why we left. Why _I_ left. They talk about power, discipline – military strength. They don’t value mercy or compassion.”

“But _you_ do,” he said it as a statement, not a question.

Feeling too full of emotion, she pursed her lips and gave him a slight nod. She feared that if she spoke, her voice would break and everything would tumble out. All her secrets, her thoughts – her heart. Already, she could feel it pushing up her throat.

Without words, the Mandalorian cupped his hands around her face. She felt the worn leather of his gloves brush her cheeks, and she bit her lip in attempt to stuff her heart back in.

Then he pressed his forehead against hers.

She felt the hard metal of his helmet gently converge against her brow. It was both startling and pleasurable until she relaxed and leaned into it.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“It’s, um, a kiss,” he said stiltedly.

“Oh. Is that what this is?”

He chuckled a little, the vibrations making their way to the hands on her face.

“It’s a _Keldabe_ kiss – a Mandalorian thing.”

“That’s much nicer than what _we_ do.”

“And what’s that?” he asked. “How does your kind show affection, Riis?”

“Like this,” she said, breaking off contact and looking down. His gaze followed. Riis was pointing a blaster under his helmet.

“It’s called The Widow’s Kiss,” she said, smothering a laugh.

If the Mandalorian was smiling, she couldn’t tell. He merely looked up at her, then back down at the blaster.

“I get the sense women are not to be underestimated on your world,” he said with amusement in his voice.

“It’s the First Rule,” she said matter-of-factly, putting away her blaster.

“Rules. It’s always about rules,” he sighed.

“Is that why you don’t have a name?”

“I _have_ a name. It’s not spoken to outsiders.”

“Hm,” she said, tracing her finger alone the ridges of his chestplate. “Like the _Rule of Anonymity_.”

“From your homeworld?”

She nodded. “Don’t let the enemy know you.”

“Did you break it when you told me your name, _Solveig_?” he said tentatively. The sound of his voice resonated with richness and affection as he spoke her name. 

“I like the way you say it,” she said. “And no, I didn’t break it.”

“Solveig,” he said with a smile on his lips. She could hear it, the change in tone, “A beautiful name.”

All at once, Riis became a little too aware of everything – their proximity, his hand on her hip, the hard edge of his chestplate beneath her palm.

“Riis –,” he began.

She suddenly knew what he was about to do. She shook her head at him. “Don’t be an idiot –.”

“Riis –.”

She twisted away, looking at the dashboard. “What’s that flashing? I should –.”

The Mandalorian caught her chin in his hand this time, his other arm anchoring her from moving away.

“Solveig,” he said entreatingly. “My name is Din.”

She stared at him for a moment, taking in the revelation with stupor.

“Din,” she repeated back.

He gathered her closer as he nodded, “Din Djarin.”

She must have surprised him then when she slapped his chestplate with a grin.

“Perfect for how much _noise_ you make!”

The Mandalorian grabbed her wrist and pulled her back into him. “ _Now_ is when you laugh?”

For the first time in years, Riis couldn’t hold back the full smile blooming across her face as she heard the humour in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally, in a quiet, thoughtful voice. “I like it –.”

She paused before a mischievous spark lit in her eyes, “It’s fast, precise, economical.”

The Mandalorian snorted. “Just like me.”

“To a T,” she said, drawing the letter across and down his visor.

“They train you to be funny, too?”

Riis held her index to her lips, “Shhh. Don’t tell anyone.”

The Mandalorian brushed her finger away to run his thumb across her bottom lip. For Riis, this intimacy felt like an unravelling of something she once kept tightly coiled and hidden. It surprised her how much she wanted to let it all unfurl.

But the moment was lost when a voice cut through their silence.

_“Tell anyone what?”_

Riis shoved herself off the Mandalorian and stood. They looked toward the ladder just as Xi’an was coming up the hatch.

“You two have a secret? Care to share?”

The Mandalorian swiveled away to face the controls. Riis felt the warmth from the previous moment turn cold as she watched Xi’an slink toward her.

“I see how it is,” she pouted. “I’m not invited.”

“Cut it out, Xi’an,” the Mandalorian growled without looking her way. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Sure,” she said incredulously. “ ‘ _Work_.’ ” 

Xi’an gave Riis a lascivious once-over while running her tongue along an incisor before hopping down the ladder and disappearing through the hatch.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ran's crew arrive in the Mustafar system to investigate Eker Balett's stalled transport of Glitterstim spice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: one mention of rape (no gratuitous details), some descriptions of violence (no gore)

The drop out of hyperspace brought the _Razor Crest_ within view of Eker Balett’s transport, a creaky old thing now lit orange from the reflection from the fiery planet’s glow. The Mandalorian scanned the area for other ships and found none. With the coast clear, he maneuvered the _Crest_ to align with an access hatch on Balett’s ship.

When the Mandalorian joined the crew in the cargo hold, he found them gearing up.

“Nice of you to join us,” jabbed Qin.

Gorgo ignored him while cleaning a huge blade. Meanwhile, Xi’an was balancing a blade on her fingertip, all ready to go.

She said nothing as he passed but gave him a knowing wink. Ignoring her, he continued past as he made his way toward Riis, not caring what Xi’an might have seen the other night.

Riis, he noted, had changed from her casual outfit to the all-black shirt, trousers and gloves she wore on jobs. Despite the layers of clothes, holsters and ammo, he could make out her sleek, athletic form. Kriff she looked good.

It took a good deal of self-restraint to keep himself from skimming a glove against the curve of her waist.

Then, his eyes fell on the assorted weapons laid out before her.

“Not taking the rifle?” he asked.

Riis shook her head, “Avoiding the kickback.”

He hummed in understanding: The shoulder Xi’an had recently sunk a knife into.

Instead, her collection included two blasters, vibroblades, stun grenades and something else – a short baton made out of metal. He instantly recognized it as a retractable staff.

“Planning on getting up close on the action this time?” he asked, gently touching the rod.

“Maybe,” she said.

The Mandalorian noticed that she seemed formal and business-like today, unlike how she was with him a few nights ago. But the crew were all here; perhaps she didn’t want to give anything away, especially with Xi’an watching. Plus, he was running point on this job and there was no room for distractions right now.

He gave her a curt nod and continued past toward the hatch in the floor.

* * *

Inside, the transport was dimly lit with many of the overhead lights flickering on and off. The walls and floor, from what they could see, were wet and covered in dark orange rust, while somewhere in the distance they heard the constant drip of condensation.

“Balett has a transport like an old toilet,” snickered Qin. “Typical of Ran to associate himself with a guy who ships Glitterstim in a rust-bucket.”

Xi’an shushed her sibling. “Quiet now, Brother,” she hissed. “Do we know where we’re going or are we to wander aimlessly 'round this disgusting commode?

The Mandalorian only nodded and motioned them to follow. Lucky for them, Eker Balett had sent a map of the transport along with his transmission, and the Mandalorian had uploaded it on his HUD.

They took a left, then a couple of rights. Suddenly, there was a scrape of metal, followed by a beep. All five of them took cover. One after another, several large barrel-shaped droids floated around the corner.

The Mandalorian gripped his blaster and waited. In the background, he heard Qin squabbling with his sister.

 _“You_ go first,” Qin hissed. “You _always_ want to go first!”

“With _knives_ , Brother? Use your blaster!”

The Mandalorian sighed and shook his head. When the security droids paused, they swiveled their heads to bleep at each other. Gods he hated droids.

And this was a good moment as any, so he took it.

_CLANG. ZING. CRASH. BOOM._

He had tackled the closest one, causing it to crash into its neighbour. He followed it with two well-aimed shots that blew their heads off. The last droid, however, bleeped pathetically and began backing away, but to no avail. The Mandalorian lunged forward to grab its cylindrical body and threw it against the wall – where it exploded.

Xi’an emerged from her cover and giggled in delight. “Well done, Mando. I do _love_ to watch you work.”

“A true artist,” added Qin with a mock bow.

Abruptly, a new noise drew the Mandalorian’s attention toward the left corridor.

“Quiet,” he growled, rounding to face the crew. He signalled for them to follow toward the edge of the corridor. When he peered around the corner, he saw the passageway open to an expansive cargo bay.

Together, they crept down the hall and entered the bay when the Mandalorian assessed it to be clear. Silently, he motioned the Twi’lek siblings to flank the right side, while he and Gorgo crossed the room to the left. Riis, he then noticed, was nowhere to be seen. When he looked up, he saw her dark-clad figure perched in the rafters. She caught his gaze and pointed toward the far end of the hold.

There was a human lying on the floor, wheezing.

Nodding, the Mandalorian sidled toward the body. When he came closer, he recognized the man – Eker Balett.

He wasn’t supposed to be here, and there was no sign of his hired smuggler.

_Trap._

At that instant, the cargo bay doors flew open revealing a horde of swarthy men in distinct armor.

_Kanjiklub._

The Mandalorian dove for cover behind a pile of crates. He heard them cackling in their language as they approached.

“Ranzar Malk! Thought you could steal from us, scum?” one of them shouted in Kanji.

He looked back at the crew – their faces frozen. 

Xi’an mouthed to him, _Now what?_

He held up a hand telling them to hold their position. There were 12 of them – and each of them was heavily armed.

The gangsters rambled in, surrounding the fallen man.

“Nobody steals form Kanjiklub and gets away with it,” chortled the leader. He was a tall, wiry man with long, black hair half-tied in a top knot. “You only escaped last time so we could _butcher_ you today.”

The mob grunted as they waved their vibroswords and blasters. The Mandalorian eyed the gangsters and examined the cargo hold, forming a plan. But just as he was about to signal the Twi’leks, he heard the mob yell and shout.

_What in the hell . . ._

He spun around to see Riis in the centre of the fray, a dark blur among the throng of men. It was then he realized that she was using her staff, fully open, and spinning it with bone-cracking force.

She knocked three men down with one swing, twirled the staff above her head and took out two more behind her. She paused with her staff lowered, waiting for the next one. With perfect timing, she swept the staff upward into the face of another, bringing it back down with a crack on his partner’s head. The Mandalorian stood transfixed as he watched her continuing assault using various techniques, blocks, spins and blows. 

To watch her move – it was mesmerizing.

Drawn to the beautiful dance of her staff-work, he moved toward her, intercepting assailants as he went. 

Not that she needed help; Riis moved reflexively, anticipating every move.

Keeping away from the reach of her staff, the Mandalorian fought alongside her, taking in her movements. It didn’t take long before he fell in step with her rhythm, moving as one harmonizes with a melody. He felt the resonance from this unity in battle that he had only experienced with those of his clan. It fell upon him like a spell, as though he could sense her next move and what his next action should be – and he was certain Riis felt it too. The look on her face was both fierce and electric.

Meanwhile, the others – Qin, Xi’an and Gorgo – had joined the fight, mowing down the mob with a wild frenzy. There was no sophistication to their movements: They attacked in all directions, wherever their blasters or blades took them. It was lethal chaos very different than how things were done back home, but the Mandalorian found that he enjoyed the illicit nature of running with a crew like this. It felt good to be out on his own, independent of the covert.

Then suddenly, a blaster bolt ricocheted off his helmet, and he was sent sprawling. Landing on his back, the echo of the blast made his ears ache, and it was hard to see straight.

Before he could get up, a force knocked him back down. He couldn’t breathe. The largest of them had landed on top of him, knees crushing his chest. His focus clearing, he now saw it was the leader of the mob grinning a mouthful of stained, crooked teeth. It wasn’t until he felt his helmet shifting that he realized the dirty space pirate was prying off his helmet.

Rage surged through him like fire through a backdraft.

Instantly, the Mandalorian hit him hard with a Keldabe kiss, sending his assailant backward. This gave the Mandalorian time to scramble forward in time to pin him down. But, as he held the thug by the collar, he saw that the man was laughing.

How _dare_ this scum try to remove his helmet – _and laugh_?

What’s more, the Kanjiklub gangster threw in an extra jab. “I had a little girl on top of me like this once,” he jeered, “And I sliced off her tongue before I raped her.”

Just as though his broiling emotions had formed words in his brain, he heard a voice say:

_“Break that smile off his face.”_

The Mandalorian sailed his fist through the air to feel the satisfying crunch of the thug’s face beneath his knuckles. He punched him ruthlessly with both fists, _right – left – right – then left again . . ._

Yes, he told himself. It had to be done. Men like this space scum – they couldn’t be allowed to walk the galaxy. He’d heard of the things Kanjiklub had done – terrorizing innocents, murdering entire families . . .

With every blow, every sickening crack of the man’s jaw, the Mandalorian felt certain of his righteousness – _and he liked it_.

This anger had been whispering to him since he was a child, begging him to let it come out to play, but the Mandalorians had taught him to staunch it in favour of The Way. It spoke to him louder now, through the rush of blood in his ears, the pounding at his heart.

_Feel it._

_Embrace it._

_Love it._

At this moment, he felt as though he were drawn to the edge of a precipice. A voice from the depths urged him forward with a promise – something dark, satisfying, delicious. That is, until he recognized the voice.

It wasn’t his. It was Xi’an’s.

He was breathless when he stopped himself. But he forced himself to look up, and that’s when he saw Xi’an at his side with a smirk, spinning her blades.

_Swish, swish, swish._

The blood on the knife edge matched the red of her lips.

“What’s the matter, Mando? Need more?” she smirked, “Too bad – looks like we’re out of meat.”

The Mandalorian looked around the cargo hold to see the last of the mob being finished off by the others. Returning his gaze to the bloodied man in his grip, he wiped his gloves on the thug’s sleeve and stood.

Xi’an tutted before striking a dagger between the man’s eyes.

A curious sensation lingered with the Mandalorian as he observed the dead man before him. He didn’t feel remorse, shame or guilt like before. Instead, he felt the confidence of righteous anger course through his veins.

 _The scum got what he deserved_ , he thought. _They all did._

All was silent in the hold now, and the others made their way over. Qin made a quick stop by Eker Balett, joining them soon after with a smirk on his lips.

“Balett’s dead,” he announced, “But I found _these_.” Qin held up four vials containing a glittering orange liquid.

Gorgo’s face lit up as he tried to swipe them from Qin’s hand. “Give one!”

Dodging him altogether, Qin stepped aside with the vials held close to his chest. “Ah, ah, Gorgo! Glitterstim’s worth a fortune. We sell this, and you’ll have enough to buy plenty o’ regular spice.”

Riis had just joined them and was looking over the scene. The Mandalorian watched as her gaze landed briefly on the mob leader.

Her face, as it usually was in public, revealed nothing - but he knew better. He could see it in her eyes, the disappointment written in them, that this was the kind of savagery that she opposed. Briefly, he felt a rush of heat to his face with the knowledge that she did not approve, but he quashed the feeling with irreproachable defiance. In fact, he relished what he felt, and it irked him that she could not see the necessity of his actions.

Qin gave Riis a smile with fangs coated in honey. “And aren’t you full of surprises,” he said. “Good with a gun _and_ a staff! I’d like to see what else you’re good at under all that gear.”

Riis gave him a thin smile and flicked her staff open to its full length, pointing the tip under his chin. Qin laughed. “ _And_ funny, too.”

However, he took a careful step backward and made an obvious attempt to change the subject. He threw a look at the Mandalorian and Xi’an standing together. “Well, you two done here?”

Xi’an giggled while sliding her tongue between her teeth, “We were just cutting the head off the snake.”

Qin and Gorgo tittered with laughter as they prodded the mob leader with their feet. The Mandalorian was glad to see that the scum remained motionless and pale. They were done here.

“There’s more to Kanjiklub than these guys,” said Riis, her voice cutting through the laughter.

The Mandalorian made his way out of the hold, shouldering past her. “Then let them come,” he growled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so y'all know, I love _Ip Man _movies starring Donnie Yen, who also plays the awesome blind monk in _Rogue One _. Riis' staff work is inspired by Donnie and everything I love about HK kung fu soaps. :)____


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quarrel and some angst.

The Mandalorian shut himself up in the cockpit the entire journey home. He had stalked irritably into the _Razor Crest_ and barked orders to the crew for take-off.

Being the last one in, Riis passed the Mandalorian and paused, reaching out to graze his fingers while no one was looking. To her surprise, he brushed her hand away and turned, commanding them all to stay in the hold before disappearing up the ladder.

At the time, Xi’an and Qin had exchanged sardonic glances. Gorgo shrugged, and Riis – needless to say – was rather troubled by it.

The hum of the ship was pulling her toward sleep after the adrenaline of battle, but she forced herself to swallow the rest of a dry ration bar with a swig of musty, recycled water. It had been 48 hours since they left the Mustafar system, and she had not seen or heard from the Mandalorian in all that time.

Separated by less than 15 metres of space and metal, they might as well have been on different planets. From where she sat, Riis felt as though they had become two repelling magnets kept apart by an invisible, repelling pulse. His brusqueness was completely unexpected – and it hurt.

Stuffing her feelings down as she always did, she finished off the ration bar and began dismantling her blasters, spending more time than needed to clean every part.

But the familiar routine of this only left room for her emotions to resurface. It had only been a small gesture, his hand pushing hers away, but it felt like so much more – and it ate at her like an infection growing gangrenous.

Her mind replayed their first intimate moment when he had made a drunken fool of himself on Ran’s ship. Maybe she had said too much – she had only wanted him to see that he was more than his darker impulses, because it was true. He was a good man. She had seen it – _and_ felt it. But now, she knew there was something she had missed, and this unseen current flowed where she could not reach.

Riis knew she had to stop ruminating about him to keep her emotions in check, but in her tiredness, she let her mind slip to the more recent moment when he had given her the Mandalorian kiss – and even more significantly – his name.

 _Din_. She mulled it over in her head. For such a brash hot-head, he certainly was quiet now.

The thought of this made her heart feel full and heavy. Well aware of her inexperience with relationships – and men, in general – she desperately wished she could talk to Alva about it, but immediately despaired its impossibility: Her once wise and talented older sister now barely had the mental capacity of a small child.

Frustration spilled into her fingertips, causing her typically dextrous hands to fumble with the blaster parts. With irritation, she jammed the pieces back together before putting the pistols away. She was weary, but there was nothing she could do about the agitation in her bones.

Instead, she closed her eyes and forced herself to lay against the wall, letting the rumbling engines lull her to a fitful, troubled sleep.

* * *

After another 30 hours, the _Razor Crest_ finally returned to Ran’s outpost. The crew, stretching from their cramped positions in the hold, eagerly anticipated the landing. It had been a dull ride back, with the Mandalorian shut up in the cockpit and nobody for Xi’an and Qin to play with. Gorgo couldn’t take a joke and Riis had ignored them by gluing her face to her datapad. Happy to be home, the other three descended the left-side telescopic gate by the cockpit ladder and disappeared into the outpost with their usual banter and sarcastic barbs.

The _Razor Crest_ , now powered down, was silent as the main lights in the hold shut off. Only the faint orange emergency lighting remained, gently illuminating a path to the exits.

In the dimness of the hold, Riis tucked behind some crates waiting for the pilot to show himself. She didn’t have to wait long before she heard the hollow thud of footsteps above, followed by a thunk that echoed in the hold where she lay waiting.

The Mandalorian was standing at the bottom of the ladder motionless, his head tilted to one side. Then he turned his head and said, “Ride’s over. You can get off now.”

Slowly, Riis emerged and walked toward him, deciding to stop a good distance away. Hostility rolled off of him in waves. He didn’t move. He didn’t say a word.

On the other hand, Riis had too many things to say and didn’t know how to say them. The irritation of his actions had left her tongue tangled with emotion.

“I don’t need a lecture,” he said finally. His voice was low, bitter.

“That’s not why I’m here,” she replied.

“So what are you doing, hiding on my ship like a stowaway?” he rasped.

Riis could not bring herself to admit that his snub the other night had affected her, but she couldn’t stop the emotion from welling up into her throat.

“Because I don’t know what’s going on,” she said finally. Her voice quavered, and she hated hearing how pathetic it sounded.

The Mandalorian flexed his fists as though wrestling with what to say. Finally, his shoulders dropped and he sighed.

“It had to be done.”

“What?” she asked.

“Taking him out . . .that bastard – he deserved it.”

“Take him out? You _pulverized_ him,” she said a little heatedly. Riis regretted it the moment the words slipped out of her mouth. She hadn’t meant for it to sound judgemental – but there was no other way to say it. What he had done was exactly that. And she couldn’t bear to see him coat savagery in the language of military expediency.

Right on cue, he whipped his head toward her and jabbed a finger at her chest.

“ _Don’t_ question me!” he barked. “I was running point. I was doing my _job_.”

Riis bristled at his tone. “You’re not my commanding officer, _Mando_ ,” she spat. “I’m just telling you what I saw. It wasn’t _your job_ to lose it on some two-bit Kanjiklub low-life!”

That Mandalorian had nothing to say at this point, but stared out the gate into Ran’s hangar. This approach was getting her nowhere. Riis blew out a breath.

“Look,” she said, more entreatingly now. “There’s something eating you. Won’t you tell me what it is?”

Flexing his hands, the Mandalorian sighed, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

The Mandalorian shook his head before pacing the top of the cargo hold in thought. Then, stopping by the ladder again, he uttered a low growl in agitation and spoke.

“You believe in a world that’s made better by civility, rules and honour, but it’s not that way at all. The world is chaotic, hateful and cruel. Sometimes . . . ,” he paused, “Sometimes _we_ have to be the ones to overpower evil with ruthlessness.”

Desperation edged into Riis’ thoughts. “No, Din,” she replied softly, “No. We have to be better than that. Meet cruelty with cruelty and it’ll be all that remains.”

The Mandalorian scoffed, angling his helmet incredulously. “I _knew_ you would read it that way!” he exclaimed. “You see me as undisciplined, reckless and vicious, like some kind of monster. I was not being cruel . . . I was being _just_.”

“I never said that about you,” she said mournfully at the twisting of her words.

“You look down on my actions,” he continued.

“I don’t agree with them, but –.”

“Then you just don’t get it!’ he shouted, his breath heaving and ragged. It took him a moment before he could continue, his voice quiet, exasperated. “A cruel world deserves cruelty in return.”

Riis felt perturbed by this turn of darkness in his mind, but she felt helpless to understand it. “What happened to make you believe that? Something from your past?”

Silence hung between them and that invisible magnetic pulse she had felt before seemed to repel him further away. Even his body language signalled that he had no desire for her presence, with his body and head turned facing the open gate.

Without looking her way, he muttered, “I don’t want to talk about it,” before tramping off the _Crest_ and into the hangar.

Riis remained in the empty hold, feeling overwhelmed by the words and the emotion of what had just passed.

_Harden yourself or they will gut you._

The words of her people hung accusingly in her mind. She had allowed herself to become too soft, too unguarded with the Mandalorian. So this is what it felt like, she thought. This is what she got for getting too close.

She pressed her lips together and smacked the side of the ship with a clang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for those of you wanting more fluff. I _did _say this was a slow burn, so if you're here for warm fuzzy feels, I'm beggin' y'all to be patient. For now, the plot begins to thicken . . . )__


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mando is all tied up in knots.

“I heard you got into some trouble,” Ran said, clapping a hand on the Mandalorian’s back.

It had been a week since Mustafar, and Ran had just returned from his errand. They were seated in a rec room of sorts at the end of the galley, watching Qin, Xi’an and Gorgo play a game of dagger toss.

The Mandalorian replied without turning his head. “You could say that.”

“ _Kriff_ . . . Kanjiklub!” Ran said in moment of self-congratulatory awe. “If they’re comin’ after us, that means we’re doin’ something right!”

“Your friend Balett got the short end of the stick,” said the Mandalorian.

“It’s all about who ya know!” Ran cackled, as though his turn of phrase was rather witty.

 _THUNK_. Qin sunk a dagger near the centre of the target. Mockery and laughter followed.

“We got ourselves a nice sum from the Glitterstim, though,” Ran continued happily. He pulled out a packet of spice and waved it in front of his companion. “Want some?”

The Mandalorian refused, so Ran rubbed some along his gums and cackled. “Suit yourself. But if I were you, I’d say you need it.”

“Why?”

“Between Xi’an and Riis, I don’t know who hates you more,” Ran paused. “Or, do they love you? Girls from the Outer Rim – sometimes you can never tell!”

The Mandalorian exhaled and said, “No comment.”

In all honesty, he had plenty of thoughts on the subject but wisely kept them to himself. Since their last conversation in the _Razor Crest_ , Riis had returned to her usual habit of avoiding the crew – especially him – and everybody noticed.

Qin, overhearing Ran’s rambling, couldn’t resist interjecting.

“In Xi’an’s case, she loves to hate ‘em and hates to love ‘em!”

His sister turned to him with mock indignation, but the look quickly faded into a knowing wink. “I’ll admit, it’s a bit o’ both.”

She performed a cartwheel and sunk a dagger straight into the heart of the target. Then, she spun on her heel and blew the Mandalorian a kiss.

Ran snorted and looked at the Mandalorian for a reaction and was disappointed having forgotten about the helmet. When the others returned their attention to the game, Ran tilted his head and asked, “So, uh, something happen between you ‘n Riis?”

The Mandalorian shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t want to talk about it, least of all to Ran.

“No.”

“Ah,” Ran said incredulously. “It’s just before Mustafar, seemed like she was warmin’ up to ya. Now she’s back to her anti-social ways, and I thought, well, maybe you pissed her off or somethin’.”

There was nothing to say to Ran, so the Mandalorian kept silent. He folded his arms and watched the others take turns at their game. Inside, however, was a different story. The subject of Riis re-opened the raw ache of regret he felt over the rift he had caused between them.

By now, his irritation had subsided leaving only festering guilt over the way he had shut her out. Before, he and Riis had been developing an intimacy he had never before experienced. But as they grew closer, her insight about his nature scared him more than he wished to admit – and for that reason, he believed, he had pushed her away.

_THUNK._

Qin had finally hit the bullseye and was prancing around the room, pointing to himself exultantly.

“Ha! Who says I got no aim?” he jeered at the others.

“Says the scoreboard,” Xi’an said, rolling her eyes. Pulling out her blades, she readied her throw.

“You’ve got to hit –,”

_THUNK_

“ – the –,”“

_THUNK_

“- middle!”

_THUNK._

“You only get to throw _one_ blade at a time, Sister!” seethed Qin.

Xi’an shrugged, “Doesn’t matter. You’ve all lost anyhow.” She pointed her remaining blade at the scoreboard, noting that Qin had come second with Gorgo, (as usual) the loser.

Gorgo roared, tossing his arms in the air. The Twi’lek siblings exchanged knowing glances. The large Nikto unsheathed a huge vibrosword from his belt and threw brutishly it at the target with two hands. It landed a foot from the target’s edge, on the wall.

Xi’an and Qin burst into a fit of laughter.

“How’d this guy get hired?” jeered Qin.

“I dunno, Brother, but I suppose there was an opening in the Entertainment Department!”

The Twi’leks continued to torment Gorgo, who, before leaving the room, yanked his sword free and smacked the target off the wall like an angry child.

Ran, still sitting with the Mandalorian, slapped his knee.

“We got a great crew here, right, Mando?” he said, chuckling.

The Mandalorian gave a half-shrug before getting up and leaving the room. He was tired of the crew’s antics, and his mind had been pre-occupied with other things, namely, a certain _someone_.

Heading through the passageways, he was curious if he would find Riis skulking the hallways or lurking in the shadows waiting for him. His conscience, however, told him that he would not.

* * *

The doors to his quarters hissed shut behind him. It was very late, and the Mandalorian had spent a good deal of the evening wandering the corridors and parts of the outpost in hopes of running into Riis. But to no avail. Either she was purposefully hiding from him, or she had disappeared into thin air. Finally, he stopped by the hangar to double-check the _Razor Crest_ before calling it a night.

Now within the confines of his room, the Mandalorian felt relief as he observed the four neat walls that sealed him off from prying eyes. Ironic, he mused, how something resembling a cell was his form of escape – but it was fitting: The Mandalorian Way was full of paradoxes.

He eyed the room, making sure that everything was still in its place. The cup of water by his cot, the datapad charging on the desk. His bed, crisply made and his spare flight suit all remained as he had left them earlier that day. All was clear.

The first thing he did was chuck off the helmet.

Kriff he was tired.

In the armour, he had to carry on as though he were ready for a full-scale attack at any time, even if all he really wanted to do was strip it all off and lie in bed. It didn’t matter if he was down with a flu or dizzy from exhaustion: A Mandalorian always had to be alert – or, at the very least, _look_ it.

But now, in the privacy of his quarters, he didn’t have to look ready, mean or dangerous. He didn’t have to be anything for anyone.

With this motivation, he removed his gloves and began unlatching the pauldrons and shrugging off the cuirass. Then came the vambraces, which fell open with a click, followed by the cuisses and his utility belt.

Finally unencumbered of the armour, Din Djarin sank into his cot like a stone in water. He leaned forward and pressed his head into his bare hands.

Riis.

_Solveig._

The familiar pang of regret was still there, the same one that had been plaguing him for days. When he closed his eyes, he remembered how it felt to have her so near, sitting on his lap and gathered in his arms. There would be no erasing his memory of the shy, curious expression on her face as she joked with him, touched his chestplate, leaned into his touch.

She had given him more of herself than any other person ever had, as little as it seemed. Small touches, a rare smile. He knew that for Riis, that kind of intimacy given was significant and hard-won.

From what he knew, she had been raised like him. Both of them were taught to protect themselves with armour – and people like them, they didn’t lower their defenses lightly. But she did – and she did it for him.

Riis was right. He was a hot-headed fool. On the transport, he was so certain of his actions that when he quickly felt ashamed of them, he had blamed Riis – knowing her disapproval of needless brutality.

He knew now that it wasn’t her voice accusing him of savagery; it was his own.

And he had pushed her away because of it. Din groaned, dragging his fingers through his dark, messy hair. After their conversation on the _Razor Crest_ , Riis had returned to her old habit of slipping away from the crew and keeping her distance. He had barely seen her in days.

She must hate me, he thought.

_But then, wouldn’t he be dead if she did?_

He laughed ruefully to himself. His damned words. In all his life, he could never wield them to his bidding, unlike the ease with which his body took to rigorous training.

Din looked at his hands while he flexed and un-flexed them. Here was the _other_ him: Skin, flesh, bone. The beating heart beneath cold steel. He looked at the pile of armour he had just shed.

_Two parts of a whole._

The Creed was supposed to unite flesh and steel to create an indestructible warrior. The process demanded sacrifice and unflinching dedication; in return, he was promised the re-forging of his mangled parts into a wholeness that would take away the pain of the past.

In the beginning, the armour seemed all-consuming. The relentless embrace of the heavy Durasteel placed hard demands over his mind and body and made him feel both stifled and overwhelmed. But his _Buir_ had told him that this was normal: the fusing of flesh and steel would take years. There were days early on that Din would grow frustrated and discouraged, and times when he nearly gave up. But his _Buir_ assured him that if he was patient and diligent enough, he would see the rewards of The Creed – a gradual closing over of old wounds like new skin that he could not do without.

Over time, he discovered that his _Buir_ was right. The discomfort of the armour dissipated, and though at times he still struggled with its perpetual confinement, he had begun to feel secure in its bond. Year after year, this bond grew until he realized that on some days, it was the only thing holding him together. Being completely one with the armour, as his _Buir_ had put it, would come. And Din had tried to put his faith in that.

Right now, however, his relationship with the armour was more like co-dependent devotion to a demanding lover. And in this current moment, grappling with the resurgence of his raw emotions and the way he had treated Riis, was one of those times where the armour felt too rigid and exacting.

Weary of his thoughts, Din rubbed his face and stretched tall on the cot, cracking his neck from side to side. Sleep often cleared his mind, and he wanted nothing more than to let go of his guilty ruminations, so he shucked off his boots, killed the lights, and lay on the bed in his flight suit.

Minutes, then hours passed. Sleep eluded him while he tossed and turned. Tired as he was, Din could not stop his mind from turning, and every thought, every memory assaulted him with guilt and longing. Many of these he pushed away, but of Riis, he could not resist.

He imagined the sound of her voice when she was unguarded and tender; the feel of her body next to him and her hand enclosing over his. He loved the light in her eyes when she laughed at him, and the silvery way she said his name. And he especially liked thinking about her sitting with him in the cockpit, her face gently flushed and her eyes gentle. All he wanted was to go back to that night, when he held her close, pressed up against his body. Kriff, he knew that if he had taken off his gloves, she would be warm to the touch and soft in her curves despite the firmness of her athletic form.

The fact was, he missed her, and it was his own damned fault.

Agitated, Din knew that lying in bed would not help him tonight. He needed to move – maybe work on the faulty wiring in the _Crest_ – until his mind could rest.

He slammed on his helmet and made his way to the hangar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you enjoyed more Angsty Mando (and my take on The Creed). Of course, you know that with angst comes good things, so I hope you'll stick around for the next installment of this story!
> 
> FYI, the next 3 or 4 chapters are crucial to the story and to the characters' development, so they are taking forever to write. I want to get the flow of it all just right. Eek.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations and scars,  
> Feels and all that angst.  
> Riis & Mando hash things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's finally time to update the rating for this story. Things are heatin' up for our two characters, so I've set it to Teen for now, but will be changed to Mature later. Don't get too excited yet, though. I'm gonna slow burn you like a delicious rotisserie chicken that needs to take its da-yum time! K, enjoy.

_Sometimes the best way to deal with frustration is to hit things._

That’s what Riis had been taught, although her people had a more eloquent way of putting it. She was standing in a cleared area of the hangar facing a makeshift dummy she had made out of trash from the equipment locker. Her staff was in one hand, and she was trying to pin the dummy’s left arm back in place.

Her task completed, Riis took a step back and swung her staff. She cracked it with brutal force between the neck and shoulder, then whipped it down on the other. Spinning round, she then hit its flank, struck one leg and then the other before repeating it all again. She did the sequence several times before whizzing off its head with a precise backhand spin.

She paused, slightly breathless, before walking over to the dummy’s head and picking it up.

It was late. Everyone in the crew had disappeared for the night, and although Riis had tried to sleep, she found that she could not, so she had gotten dressed and gone to the hangar to blow off some steam.

Riis jammed the head back on the dummy and practiced another sequence. This time, she thrust the staff end into the torso, withdrew, and blocked with a upward drive under the arm followed by a quick slam of the staff down on the floor as if to crack the foot.

The rote rhythm of her practice made her mind quiet, and she found momentary respite from her agitated thoughts as she focused on the exercise. With speed, she parried, thrust, blocked and spun combining her movements with nimble footwork and agility. The longer she practiced, the more she felt the delicious dissociation of herself from her troubled mind as she slipped into a mental state of intense concentration.

The whip of air, the crack of the staff.

Then nothing.

Startled, Riis pulled her awareness back into the hangar and found that her staff, previously drawn back to strike, would not move. And that’s when she saw him.

The Mandalorian held the staff in his fist, then let go when he judged she would not hit him with it. Cautiously, he moved out of the periphery to face her before stopping more than an arm’s length away. In the harsh light of the hangar, Riis was surprised when she realized how different he looked. He was dressed only in his dark grey flight suit, and he had no armour or weapons on him except for his helmet, which made him look lanky and raw – less ominous. But even so, Riis could see, in his nearly bare state, his naturally broad shoulders and the hint of lean muscle beneath.

She narrowed her eyes and pointed the staff toward him. “Tell me why I shouldn’t practice on you.”

“I just want to talk,” he said.

“Talking got us nowhere last time,” she returned tersely.

Seemingly weighing her words, the Mandalorian tilted his head gravely with a slight nod.

“I know,” he said quietly, “and I’m sorry.”

Riis wondered at his tone, feeling the old desire to be close to him clawing its way into her heart. But she had questions – and she wanted answers.

“I think,” she replied, “the only thing left now is to fight.”

The Mandalorian stared. Riis guessed he hadn’t come expecting this – that he probably wanted to apologize, make up and move on. She scoffed inwardly. He wasn’t going to get his way that easily. They were going to have to talk _her_ way.

Riis tossed her staff aside and assumed a fighting stance.

“Hit me,” she growled.

“I – ,” he began, agitatedly, “I wasn’t looking for a fight.”

Riis grinned darkly. “Too bad,” she said. “ _I am_.”

The Mandalorian repressed a sigh before assuming his stance with fists up. Edging toward her, he took a trial jab, which she dodged with ease. In return, she threw a few jabs toward the helmet, which he blocked easily with a forearm, before catching him with a body shot to the ribs. He grunted as he threw a half-hearted blow toward her head, which missed as she slipped away with a tsk.

“Come on,” she goaded. “Fight me like you mean it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Riis scoffed. “No one’s ever said that to _me_ before.”

“I bet,” he said warily. “No one can get near enough to hurt you.” Then pausing, the Mandalorian added more quietly, “But I think, perhaps, I have.”

Riis felt the bitterness rise in her throat. Dismissing the feeling, she reminded herself of her goal. She charged forward with a quick jab, then sending him further back with a hard kick, followed through with a knee to the solar plexus. Quickly, he grabbed her shoulders, but Riis freed herself by smashing her arm down on his, then twisted toward him with a fierce uppercut to the gut. 

“The only person you’re hurting,” she grunted, “is yourself.”

The Mandalorian growled now and retaliated with dominating punches that she blocked with her arms. Backing up, she let him advance until she pulled down his approaching arm and brought a hard knee to his side. He managed to block the blow, caught her knee and gave her a solid elbow to the face.

Riis staggered back, shaking the throbbing ache along her jaw. He wasn’t holding back now. With every swing and every blow, she was able to sense his emotions and the shadow of memory. The details, however, were still nebulous and obscure, but she was getting closer. His rage stemmed from somewhere deep, and no matter how good she believed him to be, it battled within him for release.

“Why are you so angry?” she asked.

The Mandalorian, panting slightly, tilted his head in puzzlement.

“I’m not,” he said flatly.

Crouching low, Riis attacked him with a series of fast kicks. He dodged most of them, but got caught with a strong roundhouse to the shoulder. He backed up a few paces but returned with his fists up.

“You’re not just angry – there is longing, too,” she continued.

The Mandalorian shook himself as though feeling the brunt of her words. In reply, he flew at her with a left kick, two straight punches, followed by a left hook kick, the last of which connected with her ribs.

_Distant screams and explosions._

Riis doubled over, but pushed away the sharp pain she felt, focusing on the picture beginning to come into focus.

_A woman. A man. Small hands outstretched._

Riis wiped the sweat off her brow, determined to know more about what she saw.

“You fight like there’s a gaping hole in you and you’re trying to fill it, but each hit you deliver isn’t enough. Doesn’t satisfy. You know it’ll never be enough,” she rasped.

“Stop talking nonsense,” he snarled, approaching her from the side. But Riis grabbed his wrists and yanked them down before surprising him with a flying knee strike to the chin.

For a moment, his head snapped back, and Riis thought he would fall to the floor. But he didn’t. The Mandalorian rebounded quickly and returned with another series of fast blows.

_Fear._

_Horror._

_Grief._

Riis’ breath hitched as the deluge of memory and emotions converged in her mind’s eye. Something dark and slippery like a snake coiled around his heart. It squeezed till he could not breathe, as though he only felt release when he obeyed it.

_Rage._

Finally, the Mandalorian slowed, and Riis was able to catch his incoming arm and twist it painfully behind him.

“I see it now,” she whispered into his earpiece. “Your anger. It’s from your past.”

“You can’t know that,” he said, gasping.

She felt the Mandalorian pull against her grip, but she only secured him in closer, making sure he could hear every word. It was time, she thought, that he knew what she was.

“For my kind, combat is the only way to truly know someone, where words are swept away, allowing for action to reveal the true nature of the people involved,” she paused before saying the revelation out loud. “You’re a foundling, aren’t you?”

He stopped struggling then when he heard the words fall from her lips. Riis released him, and he backed away, perplexed and wary of her insight.

The Mandalorian gave her what seemed to be a long look before speaking. “Your kind . . .” he began, “You’re Echani.”

Riis tipped her head slightly. “Took you long enough.”

As if pleading the gods for mercy, the Mandalorian tipped his head up at the sky with a groan.

“You could’ve saved me the bruises if you told me sooner; I would’ve known not to cross a woman from a _matriarchal warrior planet_ ,” he scoffed.

“Didn’t they teach you anything about the Echani in your covert?” she teased.

The Mandalorian angled his helmet at her. “You don’t look like one,” he answered.

“True,” she said. Riis gave him a sly smile and began weaving her way toward him as though she was still ready to fight. “I’m half. Which explains why I don’t have the white hair and silver eyes.”

She paused within arms’ reach. “But enough about me. You still haven’t answered my question – ”

The Mandalorian stepped back instinctively, but she was too fast. She grabbed his forearm and pulled him in, feeling the flex of tendon and muscle resisting her beneath his sleeve. 

“ – about being a _foundling_.”

He angled his head at the word, then broke off her grip and pushed her firmly on the shoulder, sending her back.

“You fight like a foundling,” she continued, rounding back upon him with a kick. “One who’s been trained to suppress his emotions – easy enough to do behind a mask.”

The Mandalorian swung his arm, which she dodged before retaliating with a swift blow to his ribs.

She felt it all coming now, the swirl of his emotions taking a firmer shape. Riis was hardly aware of what she was saying; she was only speaking as one observes. “But there’s more . . .”

He blocked her blow with a knee, grabbing her wrists and pulling her forward.

“Rough around the edges; desperation, I think. Then there’s that anger. From being abandoned, perhaps?”

Riis didn’t see it coming. The Mandalorian uttered a feral, savage noise and grabbed her around the waist, slamming her to the ground, his body landing on top of hers.

Riis had landed on her back with a smack, and though she should have felt the wind knocked out of her lungs, all she could feel was the murky whorl of his emotions and thoughts disentangle into a clearer impression of memory.

_We love you._

_No._

_Don’t._

_Don’t go._

It wasn’t their fault,” he snarled, his visor menacingly close.

It had only been a split-second in time since they had fallen, but Riis digested everything from their fight as though she had read portions of an ink-smudged book. Piece-meal, she understood the Mandalorian’s helplessness and rage, his great loss and that dark, compulsive _need_.

Still slightly dazed from being immersed in his thoughts and memory, Riis began to notice the Mandalorian’s weight crushing her from above. He was breathing hard, with the crown of his helmet just touching beneath her chin. Slowly, Riis lifted a free hand and gently rested it between his shoulder blades. He tensed for a moment, before softening into it.

Tenderly, she said, “You are angry they tried to save you, and angry that you lost them. You miss them so much.”

He let out a long breath, and beneath her hand, she felt as though he was deflating completely.

“I do,” he whispered.

She felt his body melt even further, filling every gap between them like warm liquid – and she suddenly pulled out of her daze as she grew hyperaware of his body pressed against hers in a non-combative situation. At first Riis’ body went rigid – that is, until she felt his arms close tighter around her waist.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered back, softening in his hold. “About your parents.”

“I couldn’t save them,” he murmured, his head still buried in the crook of her neck.

“I know.”

She stayed very still, listening to the sadness that lined his voice and feeling the heavy rise and fall of his chest against her own. He was so close that she could feel his heart beating through the thick material of his flight suit. And suddenly, with his warmth and weight pressed along her body, Riis felt the stirring of longing and desire swelling below – and even more so when she noticed his thigh was pressing up between her legs. Taking a ragged breath, she bit her lip in attempt to control her thoughts.

The Mandalorian had lifted his head at this point, staring at her through the visor. “Is this what you wanted to know?”

“I needed to understand,” she said hesitantly, “what you would not tell me.”

Nodding slightly, he only looked back at her in silence, and at that moment, Riis wondered if he could read what her body betrayed, and she felt embarrassed by it. But her fears were quelled when he slid an arm from beneath her and smoothed a gloved hand along her waist.

“The Echani communicate through action,” he began. “Is this – ,” he dragged his hand past her hip and cupped the back of her thigh, as she had been laying with her knee bent against him, “– something you understand?”

Riis’s mouth ran dry, nor did she have any words to respond. Instead, she ran her hands from his shoulder blades across the firm cords of muscle along his back. It surprised her when she felt a certain pleasure feeling his body through the flight suit and even more so when the Mandalorian’s response was a repressed euphoric groan. 

She couldn’t help it then when she placed a hand on his neck, tracing a line from his throat to his collarbones, all of which she could feel beneath the suit. She repeated the motion as he stared down at her through his dark visor.

“I want to kiss you,” he said finally.

The sound of his voice, overfull with his desire for _her_ , enflamed that spark of arousal and sent it crackling like electricity through her body. Riis bit her lip to control her voice. “I know.”

The Mandalorian ran his hand up her side again, resting it along her rib cage. “You’re beautiful, Solveig.”

For a moment, Riis was in awe of his words and the quiet, reverent way he had just said them. Her entire life until this point was one of bleak discipline and abject loneliness. She hadn’t ever considered that _this_ was even an option – and it unsettled her.

Too full of emotion to speak, Riis remained silent but kept her gaze fixed on his visor. The Mandalorian then cupped her face with his hand, gently running his thumb along her cheek and slipped further down, until it caressed her lips. She couldn’t know what he was thinking then, with his eyes sealed behind the visor and the air mute from words. It was only when he shifted that she _felt_ was he was thinking, pressing up against her thigh.

“It’d be simple,” he said, breaking the silence, still brushing her lip with the supple leather of his glove, “to take the helmet off.”

Riis closed her eyes, trying to subdue the grip of teeming desire as she felt him hard against her. Yes, how easy it would be. He wanted her, and she could simply give in and gratify herself. _And yet_.

It meant allowing him to throw away his identity, his culture, his people. _Everything_.

The realization terrified Riis. Abruptly, she pushed her palms against his chest and slid out from beneath him.

“I can’t let you do this,” she said firmly, before standing up.

The Mandalorian also got to his feet, closing the distance between them. He held her by the wrist to keep her close.

“It’d be _my_ choice, Solveig,” he rasped.

Riis loosened herself from his gentle grip and stepped back, but his hand stayed, hovering in the air.

“I know it is, Din,” she replied mournfully. “But you _need_ The Way. I’ve seen the rage inside of you and why it’s there. Left rudderless, this anger will twist and corrupt you and before you know it, you’ll become the galaxy scum that you hate. You think I don’t understand, but I do. Our codes and creeds and rules – they’re to steer us toward good.”

The Mandalorian sighed irritably. “The Way denies who we are on the inside. Who I am in here,” he tapped his chest, “and who I’m _supposed_ to be – they don’t match.”

“You’re looking at it the wrong way.”

He laughed morosely. “Am I? What do _you_ know about living my creed?”

“I know that it’s not a mask or something you wear. The Way is a channel. It doesn’t deny what you feel. It gives you a way to deal with your emotions with strength, honour and integrity. You speak as though you expect The Way to change you,” she paused, searching for the right words. “As though you want it to _un-make_ you and turn you into someone else. Maybe the first thing you need is to accept that you cannot change the past or change everything that you feel. And secondly, you have to stop hating yourself for your parents’ deaths.”

The Mandalorian stood silent against the barrage of her words. It was the most she had ever spoken, and he seemed speechless himself. He opened and closed his fists in thought.

“If I was strong enough then, I could have saved them,” he answered finally. “The anger – it feels right. Powerful. Like I have control.”

“But,” she began, “when you let anger lead you, it made you cruel, dark – hateful. Do you really want to be those things? To be like the ones who ordered the assault on your homeworld?”

Riis could see the Mandalorian resisting her words as he considered them. He fumed irritably while pacing the hangar floor. After some time, he replied:

“No.”

“Then give The Way more time. You need _it_ more than you need me,” she implored.

He stopped pacing and turned to look at her straight in the eye. “No, Solveig. I want _you_.”

At this moment, Riis wanted nothing more than to reciprocate this spoken desire for her. Nobody had ever wanted her like this, but in her mind’s eye, as though she had seen a glimpse of the future, she saw two paths for the Mandalorian as clear as the day was long. The first would snuff out the good man beneath and twist him into a debased and vicious existence – a life of poisonous pleasures and self-gratification; the second presented a course toward preserving his humanity so that he could call upon compassion and mercy toward others when it was most needed. To Riis, the answer was clear.

“You need The Way – its guidance. Years from now, I don’t want to be the reason why you lost your identity, why you lost everything.”

“But I’d have you,” he said quietly.

His words stung at her heart, but she held firm in her resolve.

“I know if you choose to do this now, you’ll regret it and you’ll resent me for it.”

The Mandalorian stepped closer and placed his hands around her arms. She felt his warmth through his gloves, and she felt again the familiar pull toward him. He then lowered his head and rested his helmet against her forehead in a Keldabe kiss.

“I wouldn’t, Solveig,” he breathed. “I’d be _happy_.”

Tentatively, she placed her hand against his chest trying her best to suppress the tears fighting to escape. Gods, how she wanted to stop resisting, but ultimately and irrevocably, she knew that what she had just said was true.

Riis swallowed back the tears.

“Din, you’ll never be happy until you face the demons inside of you,” and she touched the dark glass of his visor before slipping out of his arms and leaving him alone in the dim light of the empty hangar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golly gee willikers. This was a tough one to write. There was a ton of things I wanted to explore in this chapter, so I hope it all came out intelligibly! Would love to know what y'all think of it. :)
> 
> Also, I've revealed Riis to be of the Echani species, which I don't know a whole lot about, but their characteristics were interesting enough to weave into her backstory. 
> 
> Psst, the tension is only building from here. Bwahaha!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He felt like a grenade ready to go off."
> 
> That about sums up this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just when you thought the last chapter hurt . . .

The blue fluorescent lighting of the hangar flickered as Riis disappeared into the outpost. All was quiet, with Ran’s ship and the _Razor Crest_ looming as silent sentinels in the gaping entrance of the docking bay. Despite the stillness of the hangar, however, the Mandalorian was deafened by the intense thrum of his heart pounding against his chest.

He felt like a grenade ready to go off.

Growling to himself, the Mandalorian stalked over to Riis’ practice dummy, reeled his arm back and sent its head flying several feet back with a clang.

Still, he felt ready to detonate. He squeezed his fingers hard enough to dig through the leather of his gloves and into his palms. Closing his eyes, he couldn’t stop recalling the way Riis felt beneath him – warm, soft and responsive – and the way her eyes held on to his through a veil of dark, straight lashes. The way they dilated and her lips parted when he smoothed his hand down the length of her side. How she arched slightly into his touch as his hand caressed the back of her thigh. He was certain she felt his hardness press against her, but she didn’t then recoil. Instead, he had felt her rise to meet him, even slightly – that modest increase in pressure against him had nearly made him come.

The Mandalorian exhaled with a seething breath. He was so tightly wound, it was hard to think straight.

_You’ll never be happy until you face the demons inside of you._

The demons she mentioned – he knew them well. They were his old friends, the ones who had haunted him since he was a child and kept hidden beneath the armour. And Riis had seen them. Her revelation had made him feel naked, unarmoured and worse yet, un-helmeted – like her words had stripped him of everything that made him a Mandalorian and returned him to the small, helpless child he was when he lost his parents.

_The Way is a channel. It doesn’t deny what you feel._

The Mandalorian paused to sift the words Riis had thrown at him. Perhaps he was wrong about The Way; that he believed it would take away the pain and the heartache of his loss – but then he couldn’t change the past, and he could never forget his parents.

Never in his life with the Mandalorians had he been told to forget the past. They said The Way would help him move forward. His _Buir_ had told him that a Mandalorian is a warrior, indestructible on the outside, a beating heart within. But the Mandalorian was never taught how to feed that heart, how to tend to its wants, needs and wounds. He had thought it meant to dismiss them all. Perhaps he _had_ missed the point.

The anger, helplessness, guilt and grief – he now understood that they would always be a part of him, in the same way that Solveig Riis was both sharpened edge and compassionate heart. The Mandalorians and The Way had saved him and given him purpose. It could still, if he trusted it to steer him through this chaotic galaxy.

Was Riis right about The Way?

_You have to stop hating yourself for your parents’ deaths._

He gave the practice dummy one last punch before deciding to leave the hangar in favour of his quarters. The sound of his footsteps echoed throughout the mouth of the docking bay, while his mind was ponderous with the thoughts of Riis. Just as he reached the exit doors, a flash of blue rounded up to him from behind the doorway.

Xi’an cocked her head and threw him a wide, wicked grin. “Well, Tin Can,” she said sensually. “Looks like there’s actually a hot-blooded man in there.”

“Kriff off, Xi’an,” growled the Mandalorian. He attempted to side-step her and leave through the doors, but she blocked his way. Xi’an bit her lip as she eased herself closer. She was wearing a crop top that showed her slender midriff and accentuated the roundness of her hips. A plunging neckline drew his attention to the fullness of her breasts. He swallowed thickly.

“Little mouse didn’t want to play,” she said in a sing-song, “but _I’m_ all game.”

She moved in even closer, until he could feel her body heat through the flight suit. But he didn’t move. His mind and body, strung tight like a bow from his previous encounter with Riis, were on overdrive. In that instant, Xi’an seemed to read his silence for agreement, so she raked her nails along his torso and pushed him against the wall as she continued to scrape across his abdomen. He sucked in a breath.

“You see, I know who you _really_ are,” Xi’an said smugly. “Not like that _bitch_ Riis – she doesn’t know a thing about you. You _like_ being ruthless. That code, it's not good enough for you, not the other way around. It's holding you back from what you _deserve_.”

The Mandalorian felt ire rise up in his chest when he realized Xi’an had been watching them, spying on their intimate moment. And yet at the same time that he couldn’t deny liking what she had said about The Way holding him back, he also knew he should move, get away from Xi’an before this went any further. His mind battled for reason, but her eager presence was compelling, alluring, addictive. The deep need in him wanted more – and he was starved.

Meanwhile, Xi’an had brought a hand past his waist and was teasing it down between his legs. His breath hitched as she pressed the heel of her palm against his crotch.

“That bitch got your balls tied in a knot?” she hissed, poison sliding between her teeth.

Without warning, she shoved him against the wall as she flared her fingers along his groin and stroked his straining mound through the flight suit, slow and long. The Mandalorian groaned. As he indulged in her touch, his head tilted back and the helmet met the wall with a slight clang.

“Hmm,” she hummed, delighted in his response. “ _There_ you are.

It was all too much: First, his intimate encounter with Riis just moments before had sent arousal coursing through him like wildfire until she left it to burn out on its own. But now – Xi’an had swept in like a mad-hot gust to fan the flames again, and he was nearing a fever pitch.

Xi’an, like a viper striking its prey, bared her teeth and sunk them into the cloth of his neck guard. The thickness of the material prevented her from doing any actual damage, but he could feel them scrape against his skin as she moved her lips to nip at his neck, cloth and all. Her hand remained below, stroking, and kneading, while the other cupped the back of his neck to keep him moored to her mouth. All of it sent a jolt through his spine and pooled like syrup in his groin. It was nearly enough to undo him.

The Mandalorian had no words for all of this. His body was on fire. Never had he been touched like this – so eagerly, so aggressively. And though he hated that it was Xi’an touching him, he didn’t stop her either. His base impulses wanted to finish what he and Riis started, even if it meant imagining that Solveig was the one in the Twi’lek’s place. And it all felt as though he were on a ship stuck in light speed heading for impact.

But then, in the furthest corner of his mind – between rationale and pleasure, love and lust – he knew he would lose Riis for good if he allowed this to continue. Perhaps it was already too late. And as if his guilt materialized the fate he so feared, he heard a small sound in the hallway. He opened his eyes and turned his head toward the open door. There, in the corridor was Riis, her face blanched and hard like marble.

The fire within quenched and the Mandalorian felt as though he was being slammed out of hyperdrive. Immediately, he shoved Xi’an off of him, but the damage was done. When he returned his gaze to where he had seen Riis, she was already gone.

_Karking hell._

Then, Xi’an laughed.

She threw back her head and howled.

Disgusted by everything that had just happened, the Mandalorian snarled and grabbed her by the shoulders, throwing her against the same wall.

"What. Is. So. Kriffing. _Funny_?” he roared.

Without resisting his hold, Xi’an’s head lolled like a grotesque doll as she continued to cackle, hiccupping in between, until she could speak between giggles.

“The _both_ of you. So pent up, so _serious._ How easy it is to kriff with you and your lady love. And you –” Xi’an pressed a finger against his chest. “You’ll take anything you can _fuck_.”

“Don’t touch me,” he rasped, growing incensed that Xi’an had purposefully meddled with him and Riis. He now saw the joy she had in taking advantage of him and stoking the flames of jealousy in Riis. The exasperation he felt from this entire situation crushed the air from his lungs. He wanted to wrap his hands around Xi’an’s throat and squeeze.

“Too late for _that_ , Mando,” she sniggered, holding up a hand. “Besides, you can’t claim innocence, love. We both know how much _you_ liked it.”

He leaned in, and in a low, threatening voice muttered, “I mean it. Don’t _ever_ touch me again.”

Xi’an raised her eyebrows incredulously. “So it’s all _business_ then? Be professional, yeah?”

It seemed to be her way – teasing, provoking, gouging her way under his skin. Her words dripped with contempt, and it only added to the burgeoning shame and self-loathing he felt for betraying Riis.

Nauseated with Xi’an and himself, the Mandalorian released her with a shove. Without another word, he left her standing there, red mouth twisted in a sinister sneer, as he disappeared through the doorway and into the corridor.

* * *

Looking behind him, the Mandalorian saw that Xi’an had not followed him and was relieved. He continued down the darkened hallways of the outpost that had dimmed to signal the arrival of night. When he reached his destination, he stopped and listened. Riis’ quarters were silent, and he knew that even if he buzzed her ’com, she would not answer. Still, he needed to try.

He pressed his index to the button, which glowed yellow as it hailed the room’s occupant from the inside. In all honesty, the Mandalorian half hoped that she would not answer. If she picked up or opened the door, he didn’t know what to say. For kriff’s sake, she had seen him pressed against the wall with Xi’an clutching at his crotch. He exhaled. Perhaps he’d better be ready, he thought, in case she came out ready to murder him.

But nothing happened. The button remained yellow for a while, then faded to nothing when no response came. He thought for a moment that he should try again, but he knew there was no way Riis would want to see him.

He had hurt her twice now, and this time, there might be no forgiving him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo . . . yeah. This just happened. Don't hate me. Hate Xi'an.
> 
> And maybe don't be too hard on Mando. He's a touch-starved bb who had to learn his lesson the hard way. 
> 
> Also, please remember all that sexual innuendo between them dropped in ep. 6. This chapter is based on what they say in the show! So there.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Job on Alzoc III, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here we are, approaching the end of the beginning!

"Good news, people,” Ran said. “We’re goin’ to Alzoc III!”

Ran had assembled the crew, who were scattered around the control room surrounding the holoprojection of various maps and charts regarding their next job. He had even dragged Riis out of hiding. But presenting this kind of detail prior to an operation was so unlike Ran, and the Mandalorian surmised that this would not be as simple as the other jobs they had been on.

Riis, he observed, was leaning against the doorway with her face cast in the shadows. He was grateful for his helmet then, which shielded his gaze as he tried to get a read on her. Since everything blew up that night with Riis and Xi’an, he had given her a wide berth. This was the first time he had seen her, and he couldn’t help watching and observing her every move. Of course, she had put on her own mask that concealed all emotion or thought except for one, nearly imperceptible detail: A slight redness in the whites of her eyes.

This small discovery pierced him with a sharp pang of regret.

_It’d be my choice._

His own words rose to haunt him then, spoken to Riis when he claimed that she would be his choice over The Way. And then he had gone to indulge himself with Xi’an, which she had seen. To him, it seemed most certainly that Solveig hated him now.

Qin’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “What’s on Alzoc III?” Qin asked, making a face. “There’s nothin’ there – just a bunch o’ ice.”

“It ain’t nothin’ where we’re goin’,” replied Ran. “It’s a mining facility.”

“Any pretty rocks?” asked Xi’an, who had purposefully taken up the position near Riis and across from the Mandalorian.

“Plenty!” chortled Ran. “Payment’s in ore.”

Her face fell, “Not shiny ones then.”

“Just the kind that exchange for lotsa credits,” he grinned.

“Credits are good,” grunted Gorgo, standing with his heavily muscled arms crossed. “Easy credits even better.”

“So what’s the job?” interrupted Riis. Her voice was level and cold, evident that she wanted to cut to the chase.

Ran cackled, “Of course you’d like to know! For the amount of ore they’re offering, you’d think it’d be a hard one, but it’ll be a cinch.”

The Mandalorian, also not in the mood for Ran’s roundabout way of speaking, demanded a clearer answer. “ _What_ exactly?”

“It’s an Imperial outpost. They control the mines on Alzoc, and they’ve got a, well – let’s say – a problem with the _wildlife_.”

Qin lifted his eyebrows as he smirked. “Ah,” he breathed. “Pest control, innit?”

Ran slapped his knee. “Ha! You could call it that. See, the Imps ain’t alone on Alzoc. They gotta contend with some 8-foot tall furry beasts with razor-sharp claws and fangs. Monstrous things called Talz. The commanding officer of the oupost, a Colonel Drekker, has family with him; they’re terrified. Said the Empire won’t bother to help take ’em out. That’s where we come in.”

“I don’t know about working for Imps,” Riis said, with a hint of ire in her voice.

“What’s to worry?” laughed Ran dismissively. “They always pay good. And besides, we got _him_ to keep the Imps in line.” Ran jabbed a thumb toward the Mandalorian.

“Speaking of which,” Ran continued, turning to face him, “Mando, we’re gonna need _both_ ships this time.”

The Mandalorian cocked his head. “Why?”

“Payment’s in ore, so we’ll need an extra ship to haul it back.”

He sighed. “Sure – but only if I pilot.”

Xi’an sniggered, “You really should let others try a _hand_ at the _stick shift_.”

The Mandalorian coloured beneath the helmet and suppressed an irritated groan. She winked at him and threw an equally salacious grin toward Riis. The Mandalorian saw that Riis reacted slightly, showing her habit of shoving her tongue inside a cheek to keep herself from speaking.

As obtuse as Ran seemed to be, even he huffed amusedly. “Okay, okay,” he laughed. “Keep yer _cockpit_ activities _private_ , alright?”

Everyone except the Mandalorian and Riis cackled as though it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Ran wiped a tear from his eye as he caught his breath.

“Alright now – let’s focus, people,” Ran said eventually. Pressing a button on the console, he pulled up a topographical planetary projection of Alzoc III and zoomed in on a specific area.

“So here’s the plan. I’ll take Gorgo and Xi’an with me. We gotta pick up some petty officer Jeter or something at the mining facility, here,” Ran pointed at a dot on the projected land mass covered in various elevation changes. “Colonel Dekker wants him to supervise.”

“Mando,” he continued, “you take Qin and Riis near the cave dwellings where these beasts live. Wait for us here,” Ran rotated the projection of the planet and pointed to a valley-like depression surrounded by raised contoured lines, indicating a mountainous range.

“Then we’ll go a-huntin’.”

* * *

The journey to Alzoc III was long and silent. On the Razor Crest, the Mandalorian stayed in the cockpit and avoided Riis and Qin in the hold. And though he didn’t like the idea of Xi’an’s slimy brother alone in the same space as Riis, he knew she could take care of herself if he tried anything funny.

At least, he thought, it was Riis assigned to his team and not Xi’an. But then, he wasn’t sure which was worse. The few times that he had to make a trip down, she refused to look at him. She didn’t speak to him the entire journey.

Anyway, how could he even explain himself? How he _only_ wanted her, and how he wasn’t in his right mind that night? Xi’an had come on to him, and he had been a fool not to stop her.

For days after the incident, he struggled to find a way to apologize that didn’t sound like a pathetic excuse; any way he rehearsed it seemed like a paltry offering for such a significant wrong. In the meantime, he guessed it was probably safest for all parties involved if he stayed in the cockpit until reaching their destination.

* * *

Many cycles later, the _Razor Crest_ arrived in Alzoc III air space, hovering over the pearly white planet with Ran’s ship having already descended to the Imperial mining facility. It wouldn’t be long before their party would join his, so the Mandalorian steered the _Crest_ down to their rendezvous point near the Talz cave dwellings.

Hitting atmosphere, the ship began to rumble, then shook violently as it hit turbulence in the lower stratosphere. The Mandalorian spoke into the ship’s ’com to alert his passengers.

“Hang on. We got a storm.”

Through the windshield, the Mandalorian saw nothing but white. Thick clouds and snow whipped around the cockpit windows, and even when he caught a glimpse of land between the gusts, he could barely differentiate between sky and the snow-covered ground. He’d have to land the _Crest_ blind, using only the mapping sensors presented on screen.

After adjusting calibrations, engine thrusters and hoping for the best, the Mandalorian landed the ship safely despite the harsh conditions outside. The _Crest_ touched down with a muffled thud as it sunk into the deep snow.

Turning off the engines, the Mandalorian took a deep breath and exhaled at length. Now, he’d have to go down and face Riis. On top of the tension between them, he also felt wary about what to expect – what might happen on the job, and what might push him to go too far again.

And he didn’t want to give Riis another reason to hate him more.

_Accept that you cannot change the past or change everything that you feel._

He closed his eyes. Taking slow, shallow breaths, he allowed just the faintest trickle of his anguish to surface. Gradually, the howling of the wind outside disappeared and his mind grew calm. Then, _they_ appeared. He recognized their faces even though he thought he had forgotten what they looked like long ago.

_Mother. Father._

Together, they held out a small, shining object in their hands, looped on a leather string. Instantly, he knew what it was.

He reached beneath his cowl and felt the hard edges of the Mythosaur pendant in his hand. This symbol he wore was a tribute to his Mandalorian culture – his current family. He thought of his birth parents, his _Buir_ , and the covert. He thought of Riis. All the people he cared about, who wanted the best for him. 

* * *

Qin peered out of a porthole and made a long face. “Looks kriffin’ freezing,” he said.

Having just descended the ladder from the cockpit, the Mandalorian picked up one of the heavy parkas in the hold and threw it at Qin. The Twi’lek caught it and scowled at the large, white mass in his hands.

“Layer up. It’s gonna be cold,” he replied, shrugging on a jacket himself.

In the far corner, Riis had just about finished loading up her gear, strapping on blasters, grenades and knives. It never ceased to amaze him that someone so dangerous could be so be so generous, vulnerable and kind. She lived this dichotomy comfortably.

He knew at that moment, standing like a fool in his own ship, that he loved her – absolutely and irrevocably. 

The realization sprung in him a new sensation amidst the haze of regret and loss. He was _grateful_.

He was grateful to Solveig for having told him the truth about himself, challenging him to follow The Way, and pushing him to face his demons. He was grateful to her . . . _for loving him_.

He approached her slowly, his heart thrumming hard against the armour as he stopped by her side. He knew that he had to act carefully, or he was at high risk for having his ass handed to him on a beskar plate.

Riis said nothing when she turned toward him, keeping her gaze down at his chest. He wondered that with all her intuition in battle, if she also had the power to see through Durasteel, skin and bone, right into his heart. It was as if she was locked in a spell, having been cast into stone, and cursed to embody the anguish she would not let him see.

Wordlessly, he presented her a parka and held it open for her. For the first time in a week, she looked at him, then back down at the coat. To his surprise, she turned around and gathered her smooth, black hair off one shoulder, then allowed him to cover her shoulders as she slipped her arms through the sleeves.

When she finished, she turned around and nodded in thanks. He saw then how striking she looked with her black hair contrasting with the cloud-white hood forming a halo around her face. It took a great deal of strength for him to resist reaching out to touch her. To his amazement, Riis lifted her hands toward him, and he nearly stepped back before realizing that she was pulling his jacket zipper neatly to base of his helmet.

He stood motionless as she finished, a familiar softness flitted across her face before it disappeared.

“Stay safe,” she said quietly.

Her eyes were already lowered and looking away, so he said in return, “You too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favourite part of this chapter is that its emotional centre revolves around the mundane act of putting on coats.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Job on Alzoc III, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some depictions of gore, violence
> 
> OMG, here we are to the culmination of all things! This is the end of the past, but don’t worry – this isn’t the end of this story!

Alzoc III was truly nothing but ice and snow. When the three of them exited the ship, they were immediately hit with violent gusts and blinding flurries. Now trudging through the high drifts, they made their way to a stakeout point behind an outcropping of snowbanks that overlooked the cave dwellings in a small valley below.

The Mandalorian stuck his amban rifle into the snow as they all crouched behind their hiding spot. He tapped on his vambrace for the time. Any moment now and the other party should be here.

The plan was simple: Once Ran’s team arrived, the idea was to surprise the beasts with thermal detonators thrown into the caves. If any remaining Talz stumbled out, he would take them down with the amban rifle while the others assisted using any means necessary.

Soon, he saw the faint red flicker of Ran’s ship pass low overhead. The Mandalorian pointed to the sky, alerting to Riis and Qin that the others were coming. Almost show time.

At that moment, he passed a glance at Riis, who was peering intently at the caves. Curious, he took out his binocs and spied where she was gazing, making out some forms occasionally emerging from the shadows.

From what he could see, the Talz were extremely tall bi-peds with thick bodies covered in white fur. They had four eyes, a long proboscis-like tube for a mouth and long, sharp claws.

They were certainly strange looking, and he had never seen any creature like this before. But something wasn’t quite right, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Lowering the binocs, the Mandalorian noticed right away that Riis’ initially inscrutable face now changed into a look of concern. It caught his attention, because an expression from her meant there was something significant on her mind.

Before he could ask what she was thinking, a soft chittering noise emanated around them. Riis whipped around to look at him, her eyes wide. The Mandalorian barely had time to move before he saw a huge white creature lift its arms about to smash them down. Quickly, he rolled out of the way and snatched his amban rifle. Ready, aim, _fire_.

The rifle exploded with a lightning crack, followed by a resounding boom when the bolt hit the Talz square in the chest. Between gusting snow, the Mandalorian only saw the creature clutch itself and continue staggering toward him. Alarmed that the rifle – having been set to vaporize – had done little to stop the beast, he aimed the rifle again and plugged two more blasts into the Talz.

The beast screeched terribly as it fell into the snow. There was no time to stop and inspect the damage done to the Talz, and hastily, the Mandalorian turned away to survey their surroundings for others. Just as he surmised, from the snowy nothingness around them materialized another Talz, who grabbed Qin by his lekku tendrils and flung him across the snow.

Swiftly, Riis rounded upon the creature with two blasters, firing bolt after bolt into its massive, furry white body. Her efforts, however, seemed in vain as the massive beast continued moving toward her. This one moved faster, nimbly closing the distance between them with heavy swipes of its claws. Before the Mandalorian could ready his rifle, the creature smacked it out of his hands, sending it flying down the hill. He whipped out his blasters instead and fired.

Neither Riis’ nor his blasters seemed to do much good against the thick, shaggy hide of the other Talz, so they ran. All three of them were now firing their blasters and stumbling down into the valley that was surrounded by Talz caves.

Having gained some distance, Riis had time and distance now to snap her sniper rifle into a ready position. She crouched low and aimed at its cluster of eyes. Firing, her bolt echoed through the valley and caught its mark. The Talz stopped in its tracks and fell face-first into the snow.

The Mandalorian, Qin and Riis found themselves in the centre of the valley standing back-to-back with their blasters out. Around them, were many gaping cave entrances from which emerged more Talz, great hulking creatures ogling them with their multiple eyes and emitting strange chirping, buzzing noises.

They had to act fast.

“Grenades,” ordered the Mandalorian. “Now!”

Each of them grabbed their thermal detonators and volleyed them into various cave entrances before ducking for cover. Several explosions, followed by fire, rock and other debris, catapulted from the caves. They could hear the creatures within screaming in anguished squawks and squeals.

Fire continued to spill out of a number of caves. The Mandalorian pushed himself from the ground and found Qin and Riis already at their feet. As they stood watching the caves, a crowd of figures emerged from within, some covered in blood and others with singed, smoking fur. Ten giant Talz staggered from the caves ready to advance on them.

“Well, it was nice knowing ya,” quipped Qin.

“It’s not over,” rasped the Mandalorian. “Look.” He motioned his helmet toward the figures approaching from the hills above. Red blaster bolts streaked through the haze of white.

Xi’an, Gorgo and Ran had arrived.

The Mandalorian’s team scattered and moved out of the incoming line of fire. Joining the fray, they blasted at the creatures’ eyes despite the relentless snow obscuring their view. Soon, the Mandalorian heard a familiar voice beside him.

“Cover me, Mando,” hissed Xi’an. “It’s time we put these animals out of their misery.”

She unsheathed a gleaming vibrosword with a hooked tip and sprang toward the nearest Talz. The Mandalorian aimed at the creature’s face, distracting him from grabbing Xi’an, who moved acrobatically to dodge its lumbering arms. Once the beast stumbled forward, pitching its head down to a reachable height, Xi’an swung her sword, slicing it clean through its neck. The hulking body thudded to the ground with its head landing shortly after. Xi’an looked back at him with a satisfied grin, fresh blood quickly freezing on her blade.

When the Mandalorian surveyed the situation, he saw that Ran, Qin and Gorgo were taking on four Talz to the left of him, while Riis faced a hoard of five to his right. Between the incessant blowing snow, he could only see her rifle and its blasts lighting up the air. The five Talz were approaching and she was going to need backup. Quickly, he turned to Xi’an to enlist her help, but she was gone. 

That’s when he heard the distressed sound of Riis’ voice in the wind.

“Mando – !”

The storm was intensifying now, and without the blaster bolts to show her position, he had to switch to his infrared HUD to find her heat signature.

_There._

He zoomed in. Four stood in a line, forming a huge wall as if to guard the one in the back. When he peered closer, he realized that the Talz in the rear was holding Riis.

It was grasping her by the throat with a single hand, and she was struggling wildly to break free.

All of a sudden, he felt it.

_The sickening feeling of powerlessness._

He felt it for the first time when he could not save them. His parents.

The Mandalorian never wanted to feel that way again, and the rage he struggled to control clamoured within for release. He told himself that it was different this time. They were animals – unfeeling, non-sentient beasts.

The Talz loomed tall and ominous like the battle droids that had come to his homeworld.

_That had come to take away everything._

Immediately, he scanned the snowy terrain for his amban rifle, and as soon as he found it lying too far from his reach, he shot the grappling line from his vambrace to bring it back to him. The moment that rifle landed in his hands, he aimed at the closest beast and fired three times.

The Talz began to screech horribly, clutching and grasping at its wounds. The sounds it made were blood curling. And now, against the illuminating firelight expelled from the caves, the Mandalorian could see bright orange embers along the charred edges of the creature’s wounds begin to expand until it devoured the beast and reduced it to a blackened heap.

Watching the Talz smoulder from the inside out, writhing and twitching in pain, sent the familiar pleasure of righteous anger surge in his veins.

Meanwhile, all the other Talz trilled and buzzed loudly, while the one holding Riis shook her more violently.

_Never again._

He rushed toward the three Talz in front and pumped multiple blasts into the two nearest beasts, which stopped in their tracks and burned agonizingly in a slow, relentless blaze.

Slipping to a halt, the Mandalorian turned and whipped his rifle toward the creature that stood in front of the Talz holding Riis.

_Click._

Nothing. He pulled the trigger again. Still nothing.

With an aggravated snarl, the Mandalorian abandoned the rifle and withdrew his vibroblade instead. Savagely, he drove the knife into the belly of the beast, sliced across with a labored yank, and jumped out of the way before its guts splashed out.

Now surrounded by heaps of burning and bloodied bodies, the remaining Talz uttered an ear-splitting cacophony of trills, chirps and buzzes. Growling, the Mandalorian rushed toward the creature and blasted it with his flame thrower. It dropped Riis and raised its trunk-sized arm, before attempting to smash him to pieces. The Mandalorian rolled out of the way and deftly landed on his feet with his vibroblade ready and stained with already-frozen blood.

By this point, the monster was on a rampage. It swung its colossal arms in attempt to grab the Mandalorian, but he was too quick. Swiftly, he clambered up the giant Talz, swinging himself onto its back. The beast shrieked and stumbled back and forth to throw him off, but he held on while clutching its thick, white fur. Finally, he turned his vibroblade on the creature, plunging it into the back of its neck.

_Never again._

The Talz beneath him squealed and flailed wildly. He lifted the vibroblade and plunged again. This creature, which had nearly taken Riis from him, had to die. After all, wasn’t this what they were being paid to do?

Ramming the vibroblade deep with his next thrust, the Mandalorian grabbed the handle with both hands and rappelled down its back, wrenching the knife down the creature’s spine with all the weight of his body.

_The great beasts of steel and wire would bleed if he cut deep enough . . ._

Blood.

_He was covered in it._

When he reached the ground, the Talz fell to the snow with a thump, a bloom of red on the snow grew around him. He stared, looking at the destruction around him – charred bodies, blood and guts everywhere, even on his gloves. Instead of feeling brazen, strong or powerful, he felt something else – something sickly.

At that moment – of course it had to be now - Xi’an’s laughter cut through the air, through the howling wind and snow.

“What a show, Mando!” she clapped. “Five monsters down single-handedly. Now _this_ ,” she waved at the bodies and destruction everywhere, “this is _you_!”

She made a move as if to place her hands on his shoulders. He spun around and thrust his vibroblade at her instead. “I told you,” he growled, “ _don’t_ touch me.”

A light pressure on his hand roused his attention from Xi’an. Looking down, he found Riis reaching for him and breathing hard, the other hand clutching her throat. He kneeled in the snow where she lay, gently examining the bruises on her neck. Almost instantly, however, she grabbed his hands with a look of panic and alarm in her eyes. Urgently, she pointed to the farthest cave entrance, where he picked up a squeaking chorus of mangled, mournful sounds. And then he saw them.

Behind a crudely built fence were smaller Talz, clearly younglings, their multiple black eyes shining against the burning caves, trilling mournfully in what sounded like cries. He looked back at Riis.

She tried to speak, but only managed a mangled croak: “They were protecting their children.”

Before the Mandalorian could digest what had just happened – what they had just done – he saw Qin and a man in an Imperial uniform coming toward them. Riis was right to distrust a job from the Empire. There was something very wrong about this whole affair.

The man, obviously the officer known as Jeter, carried himself with a haughty air and looked down his nose at him and Riis, who were still huddled together on the ground.

“You!” he barked, pointing at the Mandalorian. “Make yourself useful. Round up those younglings!”

With an animalistic snarl, the Mandalorian rushed upon the man and throttled him by the collar.

“You Imp scum,” he growled, “What do you want with these younglings? What’s this all about?”

Jeter struggled under his grip until he realized that the Mandalorian was holding a vibroblade to his neck. The officer grew limp as all arrogance dissolved from his façade and a look of utter dread replaced it.

“T-t-the adults you killed – they rebelled against us and hid in these caves, Colonel Drekker hired you to kill them so we could take their offspring instead.”

“ _Rebelled?_ They were your prisoners?”

“N-n-no,” Jeter squeaked.

“Then _what_?” shouted the Mandalorian, giving him a violent shake.

Jeter closed his eyes as if expecting a blow. “S-s-slaves,” he whimpered.

 _Kriff._ The Mandalorian released the officer with a hard shove. _They had been tricked._

He remembered the look on Riis’ face before the Talz attacked – she had an inkling of it even then.

Qin interrupted his thoughts with a laugh. “Aw, c’mon, Mando. Didn’t you know? They’re the ones who do the mining – it’s how they get the ore out of the mountain.”

A growing sense of horror gripped the Mandalorian as he realized how he had been manipulated into a blatant act of dishonor. As though a veil was stripped away, he clearly saw now that the Talz were not animals, but sentient beings – and he had just helped the Empire affirm their dominance over a vulnerable species.

Qin and Xi’an sniggered, exchanging conniving glances. They flashed their knives and began making their way toward the younglings.

“Din,” Riis rasped. She had gotten to her feet and was now next to him. Her face was ashen, her lips a tinge of blue. He braced her arms, pulling her torn jacket closer around her shoulders.

“Stop them,” she pleaded, gesturing to the Twi’leks. The Mandalorian squeezed her arms as he nodded, before making a staggered dash after Qin and Xi’an.

They were only a number of feet away when he shot his grappling line, which whipped around both Twi’leks and sent them falling, entangled into the snow. When the Mandalorian approached them, he found Xi’an flailing wildly like an animal snared in a trap. She hissed and attempted to bite him as he secured their bonds.

“You won’t touch those kids,” he growled.

“ _Beasts_ , you mean,” spat Xi’an.

With both Twi’leks tied securely, he dragged them over to the gated enclosure where the younglings were hiding. The group of little Talz backed away from him as he approached, making quivering buzzing sounds.

When he opened the gate, the younglings – most of which looked like little white puffballs – huddled even farther away into the depths of the cavern. 

“Go,” he said flatly, motioning them with a wave of his hand. The young Talz looked at each other, squeaking softly, questioning.

He tried again, this time with a different approach. “I won’t hurt you,” he said softly, “I’m letting you free.”

It wasn’t until he spoke those words that the younglings began nodding profusely, bobbing their little heads and trilling happily. They blinked their multiple eyes at him in the darkness, many of which, he noticed had fur matted with tears as they began taking cautious steps toward the gate. Once clear of the enclosure, the younglings began running out of the valley and into the snow, disappearing into the surrounding mountains.

Qin snarled, “Ran said we needed the kids for the full payment. Now we’ll only get half!”

The Mandalorian ignored him. He grabbed the Twi’lek by the lekku and threw him into the cavern. Xi’an’s eyes grew wide.

“They’re sentient,” he growled. “And you knew!”

“Ran thought you’d get the job done quicker if you didn’t know,” she said, simperingly. “Come now, Mando! They’re savages!”

He also threw Xi’an into the pen. Without a word, he slammed the gate and secured it from the outside.

The siblings began begging and pleading from within the cavern.

“You can’t leave us, Mando!”

“We’ll freeze!”

“You’ll regret this!”

Without looking back, the Mandalorian walked away, his lips pursed in a thin line beneath the helmet.

* * *

_What a kriffed up mess._

Having left the Twi’leks in the Talz holding pen, the Mandalorian staggered back toward Riis while surveying the scene before him. Scattered across the small valley in front of the cave openings was a loathsome and gruesome sight. Off to his right were the Talz slain by Qin, Xi’an and Gorgo: some beheaded, others shot in the eyes and a good many sliced into pieces. To his other side were the ones he had taken down unassisted, laying scorched, gutted or nearly bisected in two.

He hadn’t just killed innocents today. He’d slaughtered them.

And it didn’t matter now that he’d been tricked, having been led to believe that the Talz were mindless brutes that had to be eliminated. He thought about the younglings, their tears and their mournful eyes. How they nodded and obeyed when he spoke to them in Basic. Non-sentient monsters, he was told.

_Who was the real monster now?_

The Mandalorian uttered an exasperated, bitter cry.

In response, the wind howled back as if all the demons within him had risen up and slammed their full force against his chest. He could barely breathe, feeling the weight of his guilt constricting around his soul. Everything Riis had said about his rage, the Way – all of it – now made sense. His uncontrolled anger had left him vulnerable to be controlled by it – and more significantly now – by others. 

_We didn’t die so you could lose yourself in darkness._

_We died so you could live._

Their sacrifice. His life. Closing his eyes, he saw his parents’ faces forever imprinted in his mind – terror-stricken, pleading, yet . . . hopeful.

It was the same look Solveig had on her face when she urged him to channel his anger toward good. She knew it was in him to do it; if she hadn’t believed it, she would have never let him get so close. But he never fully understood what she meant – not until now.

He promised himself that he would try to become the man she believed him to be.

Riis appeared by his side through a parting in the relentless gale. Touching his arm gently, she peered at him with her piercing, dark eyes. He turned to gaze at her for a moment, observing that her hood had been pulled up and her jacket properly arranged and zipped up to keep out the cold. It suddenly struck him how young and guileless she looked in the oversized parka, even with her deadly sniper rifle slung on her back.

There was so much he wanted to say to her, yet so much shame and guilt. The wind roared louder, so he bowed his head toward her.

“I did what I had to,” he began, “ – to save you.”

Riis dipped her head slightly in a nod, raising her lips toward his earpiece. “I know. You don’t have to explain yourself, Din. The blood is on my hands, too,” she said sadly. “They lied to us.”

“Even so,” he replied, “I’ve given my rage too great a stronghold, and in the end, it allowed them to take advantage of me – to turn me into a tool for their bidding.”

She drew her head back and looked at him square in the visor. “Then keep reminding yourself of who you are. Don’t let yourself believe the lies of others. You are better than that.”

Din Djarin gazed at the strong, compassionate woman before him who pushed him to be better, and despaired for a moment that it was also because of his actions that he had lost her.

“How you can say that when I hurt you so badly?” he managed.

“Because it’s true,” she said matter-of-factly. “Just because you hurt me doesn’t mean that you don’t have a heart, that you don’t feel shame or guilt, or are unable to rise above it.”

“For what it’s worth, Solveig,” he said. “I’m sorry I hurt you. More sorry than I can say.”

She simply gave a curt nod with her eyes averted to the snowy ground and stepped away. Immediately, the sharp wind cut through the empty space between them and he understood just how inadequate his words or actions now could make up for his betrayal. He sucked in a breath, knowing with a heavy heart what he had to do.

“You were right about The Way,” he said, finally. “It’s the only way to survive the galaxy.”

As if pondering the weight of his words and the emotion behind them, Riis kept her focus on the distant snow before straightening her spine and assuming the posture of a soldier at attention. She lifted her eyes to his visor for the last time, wearing her own mask of inscrutability.

“It is the way,” she said firmly.

Likewise, he straightened his spine and inclined his helmet in a slight bow.

“This is the way,” he echoed back. Then, taking in one last look of her face, remembering the brightness of her smile and the potential for warmth in those keen brown eyes, he turned his back and headed out of the valley, snatching up his amban rifle from where it had fallen. The wind whipped around him sending his cloak flying like a torn flag in a haze of snow as he made his way back to the _Razor Crest_. In the distance, he could hear Ran yelling something angry, obscene.

He didn’t look back. And Riis . . . she didn’t follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I know this doesn't resolve a lot of the questions you might want answered at the end of this backstory (like, aw, when are they gonna get together?!), but I hope you'll stick around to see what happens when we hop back into "the present", meaning the events of episode 6 and beyond. I've got a large chunk of the next chapter hammered out, so hopefully I can post it soonish! Thanks again to all of you who have been reading, commenting and following silently in the internet shadows. Drop me a comment any time. Would love to hear what you think, especially about the lead-up/conclusion to this section!


	18. PART TWO - THE PRESENT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen years after the job on Alzoc III, the Mandalorian and Riis must endure a cramped ride in the _Crest_ with old and new acquaintances during ep. 6, The Prisoner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am here to torture you all.

**Mayfeld** is surprised when he realizes that perhaps there’s something between the beskar-clad jerk and _both_ women on his crew. Inwardly, he rolls his eyes as if he should’ve known this kind of drama was coming the moment Riis showed up and Xi’an wouldn’t stop lobbing her dirty looks.

Give it to a Mando to be a lady’s man. If that full-armour business is what turns them on, then maybe he should get a suit too. He laughs to himself as Burg begins rooting around the Mandalorian’s cargo hold, rifling through his belongings and randomly pushing buttons. Suddenly, a locker opens with a hiss, and the Devaronian grunts happily at the discovery of the Mandalorian’s arsenal of weapons.

But as quickly as the doors open, they begin to close in his face, and Burg doesn’t even get the chance to touch a single blaster. The Mandalorian, materializing out of nowhere, now clutches Burg’s collar and yanks him away from the locker. Burg throws a heavy fist toward him, but the Mandalorian is too fast. He dodges and pins the Devaronian against the wall.

“Hey, hey!” Mayfeld interrupts, “I’m a little particular about my personal space too. So let’s just do this job.”

Burg shrugs himself off the Mandalorian’s hold.

“So tell me why we even _need_ a Mandalorian,” grumbles Burg.

“Well, apparently they’re the greatest warriors in the galaxy,” Mayfeld says, adding a leer, “. . . so they all say,”

The Devaronian gives the Mandalorian a smirk. “Then why are they all dead?”

Everyone around him laughs, except Riis. She, on the other hand, is reclined near the rear cargo doors diagonally from Xi’an, leaning against the wall with her feet up on a pile of crates. And the Mandalorian can’t keep from noticing how she looks so much the same, even though so much time has passed between them.

The last time he saw her, she had straight, blue-black hair that hung to her shoulders, smooth skin like creamy caf and a small mouth that could widen into a radiant smile. Now, though her hair is still the same deep obsidian shade, he notices a few glimmering streaks of white streaming between the strands.

In his memory, he remembers how she wore her hair like a curtain around her face, presumably to hide any expression she couldn’t repress. But now, it is swept back, buzzed short against her left ear and woven in a braid that descends past her right shoulder, further accentuating her angled cheekbones and the natural upturning of her dark eyes.

Everything else about her appears the same, except that before, it was impossible to tell how dangerous she was beneath the exterior of an unassuming young woman; now, her looks have matured to match her ability. One glance at Riis today, and you’d know she is someone you don’t want to kriff with.

Seeing Riis in his cargo hold, where he has spent much of the comings and goings of his previous fifteen years, feels disorienting, as though he has travelled through time – especially as she sits there silently in the exact all-black tactical outfit she wore back in the day.

Currently, her head is down, bare hands cradling a blaster. If the crew didn’t know better, they’d think she was asleep. But _he_ knows better. The Mandalorian knows that Riis is wide awake and listening to their every word.

Mayfeld turns to the Twi’lek with a mischievous grin. “Well, _you_ flew with him, Xi’an. He as good as they say?”

“Tell them what happened on _Alzoc III_ ,” she says tantalizingly.

Riis’ head doesn’t move, but her tongue is thrust against her cheek, her jaw tight. The change is subtle, but the Mandalorian catches it: Her body has grown rigid, her hands clenching the blaster until her knuckles grow white. Xi’an has touched a nerve, and he wonders if he’s the only one who sees it.

Xi’an flashes a vicious grin. Of course. She’s doing what she does best: Pick at a scab and stab the wound till it bleeds more.

“I did what I had to,” he says flatly to discourage any further discussion on the matter. Inside, however, he can’t help remembering how he did it for Riis, how he killed the Talz because he was trying to save her, believing that he had no choice.

But Xi’an is out for blood. He can smell it now. Xi’an leans forward, ready to strike – this time, with her poison-tipped words.

“Oh, but you _liked_ it,” she goads. “See, I know who you _really_ are.”

The Mandalorian keeps his composure, hiding his disgust at the way she twists everything and spits out a mangled reality for all to see. She thinks she knows him, but there is no longer any power in her words. He has long realized that she is nothing more than a hateful, mendacious firebrand. Let her believe that he enjoyed taking the lives of the innocent. It doesn’t matter if she knows the truth; she’ll take what she can and distort it.

In the far corner, Riis’ eyes flicker, but she says nothing. The others continue with their jibing.

“He never takes off the helmet?”

Xi’an shakes her head. “This is the way,” she says, mimicking a dour and serious voice.

“Huh. I wonder what you look like under there,” Mayfeld pries, amusement dancing in his voice. “Maybe he’s a Gungan. Is that why you don’t wanna show yousa face?”

The others guffaw. The Mandalorian stands stock still, helmet angled with a marked annoyance that only Riis can see.

Turning to Xi’an now, Mayfeld asks, “You ever seen his face?”

Xi’an gasps and fondles a lekku suggestively. “A lady –,” she drawls, “ _never tells_.”

“Aw, c’mon Mando. We all gotta trust each other here,” Mayfeld presses. “You gotta show us somethin’ here. C’mon, just lift the helmet up.”

An incorrigible smirk plays on Mayfeld’s lips as he stares into the Mandalorian’s visor. “Let’s all see your eyes.”

In an instant, Burg steps and grunts, “I’ll do it.” He makes a grab for the Mandalorian, who blocks his arm. The two of them thrash about in the tight space of the cargo hold, but it is over quickly when the Mandalorian pushes Burg against a set of controls and a hatch opens with a hiss. Everyone stops and stares.

Inside reveals a small green creature looking at them with big, black eyes.

Xi’an, Mayfeld and Burg all gawp for a moment.

“What is it, like a pet or somethin’?” Mayfeld says, breaking the silence.

The Mandalorian replies, “Yeah. Something like that.”

The Mandalorian is tense. Riis notices his hand hovering over his blaster, and she can tell he’s holding his breath, every muscle ready to react. She wonders for a moment what this creature is and what it’s doing on his ship. But one thing is clear: He wants to protect it.

A new set of thoughts churn through Solveig’s mind. Never would she have guessed that upon meeting the Mandalorian again that he would have a furry green creature in his care. 

The creature coos. Tiny claw-like hands reach for the Mandalorian with infantile affection.

_A child._

The shock ripples through her at the realization, but she hides her astonishment. Everything on this job has now changed. Everything she had assumed about the Mandalorian has changed. What in the galaxy is he doing with a _baby_?

As though Mayfeld knows it’ll irk the Mandalorian more, he decides to pick up the child and mockingly cradle it, as if he might decide to fight the Mandalorian for possession. And Din nearly reaches out when Mayfeld takes the kid but stops himself from giving away any indication of attachment. Sitting upright and trigger-finger ready, Riis has already found her mark on Mayfeld’s ugly pink dome without the aid of her blaster sights. She knows exactly where she’ll hit if the ex-Imperial sharpshooter harms a hair on that child.

This Mayfeld, Riis notices, is underhanded scum like the rest of them. All they want to do is pry beneath the skin to see what you’ll do, and Riis wonders at this moment if the Mandalorian will snap and all hell will break loose. But before anything else can happen, Zero’s voice cuts over the ’com, abruptly announcing the drop out of hyperspace.

None of them are ready. The ship pitches and rolls violently, sending the passengers lurching in all directions. There is a moment of confusion and chaos.

The child fumbles out of Mayfeld’s hands.

When the ship stills and the rolling stops, Riis is on the floor curled tightly into herself. Above her, the Mandalorian hovers with his hands on either side of her shoulders, his body like a beskar shield ready to shelter her from the flying debris. He is tense still, but he lets out a sigh of relief when Riis unfolds herself and reveals the child tucked safely against her chest.

It is a strange sight, his past and his present, tangled together in a tight embrace. And even more remarkable is seeing Riis looking intently in the child’s eyes with a gentle smile on her face. He would have taken his time with this moment if it wasn’t for the gaze of the other mercenaries trained on their huddled forms.

Quickly, he pushes himself to stand, offering Riis a hand to pull her up. Instead, she ignores him and sits up in a cross-legged position, propping the child on her knee. The baby coos at her and puts his little hands on her face.

Xi’an rolls her eyes at Mayfeld, who simply raises his eyebrows as if to say _Don’t ask me!_

“Alright, we got a job to do. Mando, you’re up.”

The Mandalorian takes one last look at Riis tenderly massaging the furry tips of the child’s ears before grabbing the hatch decoder cord and attaching it to the transport. After a few seconds, the decoder beeps and the transport hatch slides open.

Mayfeld throws an irritated glance at Riis, who is still playing with the child.

“Hey!” he shouts, “Better put down his pet. We’re on the clock.” He scowls when she ignores him, and with a shake of his head, he disappears through the hatch. Xi’an and Burg quickly follow suit.

By now, Riis is standing and pressing the child close to her body as she walks toward the Mandalorian. When he reaches to take the baby from her, he stifles a chuckle: She looks reluctant to give him up. Silently, he settles the child on the cot in the extremely compressed quarters where he had been found and shuts the door.

“You can’t just leave him there alone,” she says quietly. It’s the first time she’s spoken to him since their brief reunion on Ran’s outpost, and there’s a familiar timbre to her voice that he remembers from a memory, back when she was showing her true self to him, her warm, supple body pressed against his, years ago when he was then a very young man.

He swallows thickly, putting aside his resurfacing feelings, and remembers that they have a job to do. Time is ticking.

“He’ll be fine,” he says flatly. “Load up.”

Without another word, Riis complies like the soldier she is. She shoulders her sniper rifle, checks her blaster, and clicks on a belt of ammo around her hips. When she finishes, the Mandalorian nods approvingly and disappears soundlessly through the hatch.

It takes Riis only seconds to land quietly behind him, the crew below waiting impatiently. Mayfeld taps his wrist and jerks his head in an irritated, _Let’s go!_

Xi’an turns briefly to give her a nasty sneer.

Trailing behind the rest and shaking her head with a sigh, Riis thinks to herself that this job had better be worth her time. It had better, she hoped, not turn out like the massive kriff-show that was their last job together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random note:  
> There is something delightfully awful about two people with romantic history reuniting after being separated years ago. A major inspo for this chapter (and work) was Jane Austen's _Persuasion_. One. of. the. best. Lucky for Riis, however, Mando does not find her "so altered that he should not have known her again," as Captain Wentworth says about poor Anne, lol.
> 
> Also, Batman. I also love Batman. Come to think of it, he'd make a great Mr. D'arcy.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riis and Mando's action-packed reunion through the rest of ep. 6. Enjoy!

A run-in with droids is normally no problem for the Mandalorian, but the rest of the crew seem impressed. He has just single-handedly taken down four patrol droids with lethal efficiency on their way to the transport’s control room.

Xi’an licks her lips, a jolt of excitement rekindling the thrill she once had when she and the Mandalorian last worked together. She remembers his wanton need and that dark, uncontrolled rage that was so delicious when he let it out.

After all these years, he is better than ever. She is only a little disappointed to see that he’s become so measured, so clean in his movements. It would only take a little _encouragement_ , she thinks, to see the real Mando return. Twirling her knives, she gleefully anticipates the moment when she can give him a little _poke._

Winding through the corridors of the transport, the crew finally make their way to the sealed control room. They pause just outside the door when the Mandalorian notices that Riis is nowhere to be seen. Xi’an is already by his side with an answer to his unspoken question.

“Sneaking off when the going gets rough,” she quips. “Remember Mando – _she_ doesn’t play well with others.”

The Mandalorian suppresses a growl and steps away, careful to keep his distance from the Twi’lek. He remembers clear as day what it was like to be in her toxic embrace. He eyes the rafters above. He knows better: Riis is up there, keen-eyed as ever, watching their backs.

* * *

Solveig Riis remains motionless in the rafters, watching the Mandalorian with the team below. It still takes her time to register that he is actually here, on this job, with her. As she peers down from her position, she takes in his reflective beskar armour that is clearly an expensive upgrade from his original, red and dented Durasteel one.

After all these years, she muses, what is he like now? How has he changed? So much has passed in fifteen years, and in that time, she has come to think of him as a shadow, made up of tender moments, caresses and tortured emotions – a ghost wearing a suit of armour. Sometimes, she wonders if it was a dream, and if the man she fell in love with truly existed in flesh in blood, never having seen his face or touched the heat of his skin.

Xi’an’s mocking voice cuts through her thoughts. Riis isn’t surprised when she hears a jab directed at her, something about how she sneaks off on jobs, but she _is_ surprised to see the Mandalorian look up at the rafters with his t-shaped visor. Whether or not he has actually seen her, the Mandalorian gives no indication of it as he turns his attention back to Mayfeld, who nags Zero to get the control room open. In that moment, the doors open to reveal a human male, who swings around in his seat with blaster aimed shakily at the group.

“Stop!” he commands with little confidence. “J-just stop right there.”

In her hiding spot, Riis lets out a long, quiet sigh. The transport was supposed to be unmanned. She was wary when Ran contacted her after all these years to join his crew again for this job; she was even more unsettled when the Mandalorian showed up all decked out in gleaming beskar armour. And now . . .

The rest of the crew sidle into the control room, weapons drawn, while the transport guard unconvincingly demands that they put their blasters down. Riis watches all of this from her position in the rafters, her eye glued to her rifle scope. The last thing she wants is for all of this to go sideways; she only agreed to the job because she needed the credits to pay off her debt. And here is the same Ran-style kriff all over again, even though it’s this loud-mouthed Mayfeld running point.

The poor guard, trembling in his matching shoes and belt with a dandy uniform and ridiculous Alderaanian security helmet, continues to demand that the others put down their weapons. All of a sudden, the tension in the cramped control room heightens when, in a panic, the guard pulls out a second blaster _and_ a New Republic tracking beacon.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy, egghead,” Mayfeld gripes, “Put that down. Put that down. Come on.”

“Easy,” says the Mandalorian.

But the guard keeps shaking his blaster and Mayfeld loses his cool. “Put it down now!” he shouts.

Turning to Mayfeld now, the Mandalorian tries to ease his point leader’s agitation, “Easy,” he says coolly, “Nobody has to get hurt here. Just calm down.”

The team is squabbling between themselves now, with Xi’an and Mayfeld getting into a row about the tracking beacon and his managerial style, but Riis thinks only of what the Mandalorian has just said in a calm, steady tone, trying to find a compromise with the officer.

 _Now this is something different_.

Even if Riis doesn’t quite know what’s going through the Mandalorian’s mind, she keeps her sights trained on Mayfeld’s shining, bald head.

“Hey, Listen to me,” the Mandalorian beckons gently, gesturing his free hand to gain the guard’s attention. “Listen to me, okay?”

“Look,” he holsters his blaster, then turns to Mayfeld. “Hey, put it down.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Put it _down_.”

Mayfeld, incredulous, begins to lower his blaster as the Mandalorian turns again to address the frightened guard.

“What’s your name?”

“I-It’s Davan,” he stammers.

“Davan,” the Mandalorian repeats calmly. “We’re not here for you. We’re here for a prisoner. If you let us go about our job, you can walk away with your life.”

Above, Riis scoffs in amazement. The gentle way he is handling the frightened guard, talking him down – offering to spare his life – she presses her lips to suppress a smile.

First the child, now he’s trying to save the guard. The Mandalorian is full of surprises today – but then, she thinks, maybe this is who he’s become. Maybe all this time, he’s stuck to his word – followed The Way and become the man she knew he could be. Even though she is in hiding, it’s a force of habit still, concealing her emotions, but she can’t help feeling pleasantly surprised by this turn of events.

“No you won’t,” interrupts Mayfeld, brandishing his pistol again. Jumpy with fright, the guard aims his blaster back at Mayfeld and threatens him with the tracking beacon. The Mandalorian immediately re-draws his blaster, pointing it straight at Mayfeld. The atmosphere in the room has become like a pressure cooker about to explode.

It seems that Mayfeld feels it too. With no other skill to resolve this than shooting blasters, he shouts, “Get that blaster outta my face, Mando!”

As though the strain in the room wasn’t pulled taut enough, Burg joins in with a growl, pointing a blaster in each hand at the Mandalorian and the guard. Immediately, the Mandalorian draws his other blaster, pointing it back at Burg. His voice is low and dangerous when he speaks.

“ _Don’t_.”

Above, Riis keeps her cross hairs trained on Mayfeld, waiting for the right moment.

 _A flash. Thunk_. The guard staggers and slumps to the floor.

“Would you both just shut up?” Xi’an spits vehemently as she passes the men and bends down to retrieve her blade.

“Crazy Twi,” mutters Mayfeld. “I had it under control.”

"Yeah, looked like it,” she says, laughing in his face.

They are interrupted by a rapid beeping coming from the tracking beacon. Peering down, Mayfeld asks, “Was that thing blinking before?” He looks around at the others in the room, anxious now. “Was it?”

Zero’s robotic voice cuts in. “I’ve detected a New Republic distress signal homing in on your location. You have approximately 20 minutes.”

In the rafters, Riis exhales and clenches her jaw. This day was getting better and better. Down below, Mayfeld grows increasingly flustered.

“We only need five,” Xi’an says blithely.

“Let’s go. Move, move, move!” shouts Mayfeld.

The crew turn and run out of the control room, but the Mandalorian is the last to remain. With a slight shake of his head, he pauses over the body of the dead guard. He looks down at him, before turning and joining the others.

* * *

_BOOM. CRACK. FIZZLE._

Burg stands before a backdrop of flames after destroying two cylindrical security droid with his bare hands. The raging blaze casts an orange glow on the Mandalorian’s beskar helmet where the reflection of Burg’s already ugly face twists in its contours. Appearing out of nowhere, Riis appears among them and the Mandalorian is surprised he didn’t notice her before.

Xi’an, too, notices her reappearance and scowls. “So glad you decided to _show up_.”

Riis says nothing, but turns to lead them down the corridor to cell 221. Mayfeld gets Zero to open the cell. The lock spins on its own and the cell door lifts open. Inside, sitting against the wall is a stocky male Twi’lek that both Riis and the Mandalorian know all too well.

“Qin,” says the Mandalorian in disbelief.

“Funny, the man who left me behind is now my savior,” Qin smiles as he stands, sauntering toward the Mandalorian.

“Mando,” he breathes, standing so close that he mists over the sheen of the Mandalorian’s helmet with his breath. He tosses a quick once-over glance at Riis, who stands next to Xi’an.

Simultaneously, Burg turns on the Mandalorian with a planet-cracking punch and Xi’an gives Riis a quick and dirty shove: The both of them land in the cell with a thump. Like lightning, the Mandalorian draws and fires his blaster, but the door has already closed, sending the bolt ricocheting around the walls of the compact cell. Immediately, he darts to shield Riis with his armour, just before the bolt hits him in the pauldron with a _clank_.

In the distance, they can hear Xi’an calling to them gleefully, “You both deserve this!”

Breathing hard, the Mandalorian quickly gets to his feet.

“You okay?” Riis asks, dusting herself off.

He replies with a sigh of frustration. This day has certainly gone from bad to worse. “Yeah. You?”

Riis gives a curt nod, and he notices that her gaze is already focused through the grates on the cell door. Always the Echani warrior. He wonders then how she might have changed in fifteen years, if at all. Certainly, he knows it’s not her steely exterior, but if there’s one thing he knows about Riis, she is always much more than she seems – and he can’t wait until this sordid affair is over to find out.

While the Mandalorian takes the moment to observe Riis, _she_ is already sliding up against the cell door and keeping a keen eye on the activity behind it. Her lips are pursed, eyes laser-focused on the patrol droids coming and going through the corridor. With a motion of her hand, she calls the Mandalorian to the door. He peers out of the grate and nods. When the next one marches past, he fires his grappling line and pulls the droid into the cell door. Just as it manages to point its blaster through the grate, Riis snatches barrel and yanks down, tearing its arm off in a spray of black oil. The droid drops to the floor with a crash.

Rounding on Riis now, the Mandalorian sees her wearing a slight smirk while cradling her trophy with its unlocking interface already extended and ready.

She presents it to him as though it’s a gift, and he accepts with a quiet chuckle and a nod.

* * *

They are out of the cell in seconds. Already, the Mandalorian is looking down the corridor where he knows he’ll find the others.

“Time to repay the favour,” he mutters.

“Guess they never forgot how you tied them up on Alzoc III,” she says, interrupting his thoughts. It startles him for a moment when she mentions the day he finally chose The Way over everything else. The day he walked away from her.

“No,” he replies in agreement, “there was no forgetting that day.”

Riis has another mask on, making it difficult to read her – but just as though intimacy were a muscle-memory that could return with a simple flex, he catches the passing emotion that emerges upon hearing his words even though it comes and goes in a flash. He can tell she is embarrassed.

“We need to move,” she deflects, pursing her lips together.

The Mandalorian only nods, knowing that they only have a few minutes before the New Republic squadron arrives. He turns to hunt down the others, but not before Riis stops him with a touch to the elbow.

“Mando, wait,” she says. “If the others think we’re in the cell, they plan on taking the _Crest_ – with your child in it – and hightail back to Ran’s outpost. Even if you take them down before that happens, that droid of theirs – it’s still inside your ship.”

The Mandalorian exhales with irritation.

“You’re right,” he says. He looks into her eyes and knows unquestioningly that he can trust her. “Can you get to the kid?”

“Easy,” she replies with a faint smile. “Droids make great target practice.”

* * *

What the others – particularly Xi’an and Qin – don’t realize is that in fifteen years, the Mandalorian has honed his training into a seamless consummation of his determination and physical prowess. When they knew him as a young man, he was playing with rebellion and easily swayed by his appetites. Now, a seasoned bounty hunter and provider for the foundlings in his covert, he channels everything he knows and feels into quick and effective combat.

That’s why it doesn’t take long for him to throw the renegade three together in a cell, with only some bruises from Burg and the gift of one puncture wound from Xi’an. Qin is already climbing up the ladder to the Razor Crest when he finds him, so the Mandalorian gives him a stun blast and hauls his unconscious body into the hold, where he finds a fierce-looking Solveig Riis holding the child in one arm, her blaster aimed directly at him.

At her feet, the twitching form of Zero lies sparking on the floor.

The moment she realizes it’s him, she lowers her blaster. The baby coos and reaches his arms toward the Mandalorian, who merely sighs and drags Qin’s body over to a detaining rail beside the carbonite freezer. After cuffing Qin to the rail, he turns to her and runs a finger over the child’s ear.

With the Mandalorian standing so close, Riis notices the dark blotch forming around his right pauldron. Without looking up or asking for permission, she prods it gently and turns her fingers around to examine the blood streaked upon them.

“Xi’an,” he mutters.

Riis hums and nods. She shifts, bringing the child round to rest on one hip, while she frees the other hand to search around her belt. Finding a small, thin canister, she pulls it out and hands it to him.

“Bacta,” she says flatly. “Should keep any infection out.”

He looks at the proffered bacta, then wonders if she is referring to Xi’an or is simply giving him advice. He gets his answer when she presses her lips together and her eyes glimmer mischievously. Without a word, he takes the canister with a nod. Then, looking back at the slumped form of Qin lying on the floor of the hold, he laments the fact that they are not yet alone: It’s too bad the job isn’t quite finished yet.

“Can you watch the kid – _and_ him?” he gestures to Qin.

“Sure,” she says, sitting down across from Qin. She places the child on her lap and draws her blaster, keeping it trained on the Twi’lek. “It’s been a long time. We have some catching up to do.”

He gives her a long look, wondering if she’s playing with words again and referring to him, not Qin. But she says nothing more as she settles herself against the ship wall and begins tickling the child’s nose, to which he responds with a little shriek of glee. For the Mandalorian, this scene fills him with a pleasant sense of wonder to see Solveig Riis so open and affectionate with the child. It makes him wonder when, in all this time, did she become so good with children or if she had always this way and he had never known. There were many things he did not know about Solveig before they parted ways that day on Alzoc III. Perhaps soon, there would be time to find out.

Aware of the time now, the Mandalorian remembers that only minutes remain before the New Republic squadron arrive. He turns to leave for the cockpit, but before he reaches the ladder, he pauses to toss her a ’com.

“Let me know if either of them causes any trouble.”

Riis catches the palm-sized communications device in one hand.

“Not _this_ one,” she says with a doting certainty that even she can't hide.

The Mandalorian angles his helmet. “Yeah, _especially_ that one,” he says, before disappearing up the ladder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty. I hope you enjoyed our characters' reflections throughout my re-writing of ep. 6 with Riis' inclusion in the story. Now we get to the part where they can finally have some proper time together ... Stay tuned!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mando and Riis have their first conversation since their impromptu reunion.

Light speed. The _Razor Crest_ flits through time and space like a needle piercing through multitudinous folds of black fabric.

This ship is already far away from where Ran’s outpost used to be – or what’s left of it – after the Mandalorian delivered Qin to Ran and left them with the active New Republic tracking beacon. And he didn’t stick around long enough to see the outpost blow up.

Even though he thinks it’s for the best, after all that Ran and company had put him through, the Mandalorian still feels a twinge of regret – not for having a hand in Qin and Ran’s demise – but for destroying the place where it all began. Where he and Riis began.

Sitting in the captain’s chair, the Mandalorian pushes himself back from the nav controls and leans back with a sigh as the long lines of starlight flash blue against his armour. The outpost may be gone, but Riis is with him now. She is in the hold with the child, and they are finally alone. There are no other crew members, no current job to come between them, and he wonders if it’s possible that the gods of the galaxy have given them a chance to begin again. That is, if Riis feels the same way.

Of that, he doesn’t have the faintest idea.

* * *

With the ship sailing smoothly through hyperspace, the Mandalorian silently descends the ladder and finds the hold quiet and still. The only sound he hears beside the hypnotic thrum of the engines is Riis humming softly. And when he peers into the shadowy light of the hold, he sees Riis sitting with her back toward him, perched on a jump seat on the wall across from the carbonite freezer, and gently rocking from side to side.

When he makes his way around to face her, he finds the child sound asleep and drooling in her arms.

“Have you always been this good with kids?” he asks quietly, sneaking a seat on a crate across from her. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs as if to get a closer look at the kid.

Riis doesn’t answer him right away, but only continues swaying in silence. Then, she stops and looks up at him, gaze transfixed upon his visor.

“Do you remember Alva?”

He nods. “Your sister.”

“Three years ago, I had fallen short on payments to her care facility. They kept her on for a while, but when I couldn't even keep up with the deferred payments, I had to look after her myself,” she says quietly. “Her brain injury left her both physically and intellectually disabled, only capable of communicating with cries or screams and responding to being cradled or played with. So, in a way, it was like taking care of a baby.”

The Mandalorian listens intently, watching her face as she now pauses, and he waits to see if she wishes to go on. Riis’ implacable face falters a little: A twitch of the mouth, a slight blink of the eyes. She takes a long breath before she answers.

“She died last year.”

Riis looks away, then down at the child with a slight clench of the jaw, and the Mandalorian knows that her loss has cut her deep. If only there is a way, he thinks, to show that he understands without overstepping the current undefined space between them.

But, because he is a man of action and not much for words, he tells her that he is sorry as tenderly as he can despite the harshness of his helmet mic. And he almost reaches for her hand at this moment, but decides instead to rest it on the child’s small shoulder.

Riis nods, keeping her eyes down as though she is studying his gloves. “I got to be with her, in the end. I’m glad of that.”

There is a long silence as she shifts, bringing the child closer to her body.

“Then you haven’t been working for Ran this whole time?” he asks. “When I saw you, I thought –”

Riis cuts him off. “Oh, no,” she says firmly. “I haven’t worked for him since Alzoc III. I left Ran and the rest of them immediately after and skipped around doing odd jobs around the galaxy before I had to take care of Alva.”

“So how did you end up joining Ran’s crew this time?”

“He called me,” she says. “Out of the blue I get a transmission from him offering me handsome payment for this job. I only accepted because the credits would be enough to pay off my debt to Alva’s care facility.

Sitting up straight, the Mandalorian punches a few buttons on his vambrace. “When did he call you?”

“Seventy-two hours ago,” she says, looking at her watch. “Why?”

“I contacted Ran eighty hours ago,” he mutters.

“You think it was planned then? That they tried to get me on the job after they learned you were coming back?”

“It was a set up,” he rasps with irritation.

Riis mulls over the situation in silence. When the child’s arm flops out of her hold, she gently picks it up and tucks it back in.

“Should’ve known not to come back to Ran,” she says with a scoff. “Those back-stabbing fiends always hated us.”

The Mandalorian leans forward again with a chuckle. “It’s a good thing you left after Alzoc. I had hoped you would move on to different work.”

Riis nods solemnly. “I’ve scraped by.”

“All this time, and you’ve been on your own providing for your sister,” he says in quietly.

“Not much to show for fifteen years, is it?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says, “Family's important. And she needed you.”

Riis stares quietly at him, a hint of understanding appearing in her eyes. It disappears as soon as he catches it. She deflects instead.

“What about you? Why did you contact Ran?”

“Desperation,” he murmurs.

She angles her head in curiosity. “How so? You seem to have done well for yourself.” She ticks her head toward the armour. “Beskar?”

“Yes.” He taps his fingers on his cuisses. “The armour, the need for credits – it all has to do with _him_.” He gestures at the sleeping child.

“What – did he swindle away your money with his cuteness?”

He chuckles. “Not quite.”

“So what’s the story?”

“I was working for the Bounty Hunter’s Guild on Nevarro when I was hired by an Imperial remnant to find a fifty-year old target on Arvala-7.”

“You’re a bounty hunter,” Riis says in realization.

“Yes. Have been for some time,” he replies.

Riis looks him over for a moment. “The Mandalorian bounty hunter from Nevarro,” she says, mostly to herself, as if trying to recall a memory. “I thought maybe that was you. You gained quite the reputation for being the best.”

He tilts his head. “I know,” he says flatly.

“Always so modest,” she jibes softly. Riis’ smile widens now, and the Mandalorian finds himself enjoying the uninhibited expression spreading across her face. 

“So what happened?” Riis presses, returning to the story of the child.

“When I found the target, it turned out to be the kid. I don’t know how he could be fifty. The tracking fob doesn’t lie.”

Pausing with a sigh, the Mandalorian worries that he will lose any progress he’s made with Riis so far with what he says next. He knows, however, that she only deserves the truth so he says, “So, I took the kid back to the Imps and got paid. This is the beskar to prove it,” he says, gesturing to his armour.

The look on her face is not anger or disgust, but astonishment. “But you have the child now. How – ?”

“I took him back. And now the Guild’s after me for breaking the bounty hunter code.”

Riis stares for a moment, her mouth slightly agape. Finally, she narrows her eyes as if looking him over. Then, she tilts her chin up at him in approval.

“Kriff the rules,” she says with a discernible smirk. The Mandalorian wonders if she’s throwing back something he said years ago, back when he was young and foolish. Then, with seriousness, she looks down at the little one and says, “But you did it for _him_.”

The Mandalorian nods. “That’s why I contacted Ran. It’s been impossible to get decent work without the Guild. I didn’t want to come back, but I knew the money would be good – and we,” he says, looking down at the child, “We needed the credits.”

Riis sits back as though she is digesting a full meal when in fact she is contemplating what the Mandalorian has just told her. Then, all of a sudden, she breaks into a laugh, the mirth travelling up her cheekbones and into her eyes at what he has done, and it’s a reaction he doesn’t expect. In all the time he’s ever known her, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her laugh. And the sight is both jarring and beautiful.

“At least you got yourself some fine beskar armour out of it,” she says at last. “It looks good on you, but I miss the red one.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. It’s how I’ve pictured you all these years.”

Has she been thinking of him all this time? The thought of it makes the Mandalorian’s heart pound a little too hard against his chest.

“So – you knew I was on Nevarro,” he coaxes, “Why didn’t you come find me?”

The question obviously hits a nerve with Riis as she disciplines her face back into its usual, expressionless mask. “I thought it best to leave you alone. You seemed to be doing well.”

It is at this moment, of course, that the child wakes up. Stretching his tiny fists into the air and arching his back, the green baby sucks back a big cavernous yawn. Then, looking up at Riis, he smacks his lips and blinks a few times. But it is only when he sees the Mandalorian that he begins squawking with joy and scrabbling his hands toward the beskar-clad man.

“Your turn,” she says, handing the child over.

“Looks like it,” he says resignedly as he takes the small being into his arms. Squealing, the child plants his face on the Mandalorian’s visor, like he’s trying to peer through the glass.

“I hope he doesn’t see you.”

“He won’t.”

The Mandalorian peels the child off and flips him around to keep his little hands away. Squirming even more now, he begins babbling loudly and putting his hands into his mouth. Little strands of drool dribble from his lips.

Getting up, the Mandalorian walks over to the weapons locker where a number of other cabinets are situated around it. He pushes a button and a small metal counter emerges from a slot in the wall, sliding out on its own while a supporting leg automatically unfolds and touches down on the floor.

Seeing the counter appear only causes the child to squeal and drool even more furiously, so the Mandalorian holds the kid by the scruff of the neck and places him down upon it.

“Stay,” he orders.

“Well, he sure lets you know when he’s hungry,” Riis says, wandering over to join them.

“Yeah.”

Scratching the child on the chin, Riis passes the Mandalorian and heads to the cabinets behind him. Looks like she still remembers where he keeps his rations, he thinks. But when she scrapes open the metal doors, she stands there for a moment in silence until he hears her issue a bit of a snort.

“Don’t you have anything more to eat on this ship?”

The Mandalorian looks over to Riis staring at his open cabinet with her hands on her hips. Only an old ration bar and a packet of polystarch remain inside.

“No,” he says tersely. “I said we were low on credits.”

Turning around, Riis walks a few paces and grabs the rucksack she had carried with her onto the _Crest_. She returns and drops it to the ground, unzips the bag and starts rummaging through it. First, she pulls out a few vibroblades, some items of clothing, a jar of salve and a few canisters of bacta. For a moment, the Mandalorian wonders if that sack contains all of the things she carries – the only things she owns in the entire galaxy – the sum of a spare and unpeopled life.

After a few more moments of rustling, Riis pulls out a cluster of food packets, holding them up like a deck of cards.

“We can use these for now,” she says, tossing them on the counter.

Not particularly used to being the recipient of charity, the Mandalorian manages a muttered, “Thank you.”

Riis, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to notice his reticence when she pulls out an oblong, spiky orange fruit and sets it down in front of the child with a grin. His eyes grow wide.

“I bet you like Meiloorun fruit,” she says to him kindly. Then, turning to the Mandalorian, “This should last us until your next stop. Where will it be, exactly?”

“Gaulus – in another thirty-eight hours,” he says. “We’ll stop there for supplies.”

Riis shifts, keeping her gaze at the kid who has his nose pressed up against the fruit and sniffing it loudly.

“You can drop me off there,” she says stiffly. “Should be able to find some leads for my next job.”

The Mandalorian can’t tell if Riis doesn’t want to inconvenience him or if she’s trying to get rid of him. Before he can let himself feel disheartened by her seeming resolve to leave, he says quickly, “I have a better idea.”

“Oh?” Her face flushes a little.

“Stay on and help me with the kid. It’s hard enough being on the run and scratching at credits with the little womp rat in tow. I only have the credits from the last job, so I can’t pay much. But I’ll split any bounties I get, fifty-fifty.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“You said yourself you need another job.”

The child makes a loud slurping noise, rousing Riis’ attention. She looks down and scoffs when she finds him enthusiastically sucking on the fruit’s smooth surface.

“Who – or _what_ – is he?”

“No idea.”

“A foundling?” she says, trying out the word to see if it fits. Then, when her eyes dart up at the Mandalorian, he sees the look on her face is the same as when she read his past from his movements so many years ago.

_You are angry you could not save them. You miss them so much._

“Maybe,” he says, controlling his emotions from the memory. “He was being held captive by a group of Niktos. No indication of any parents or siblings, no mementos of his kind. All I know is: he’s alone.”

“Poor thing,” she murmurs to herself.

Turning to the child again, she smiles as the kid tries another tactic by trying to roll it open. “You’ve got to cut it open first, silly.”

“So,” the Mandalorian presses. “What do you say, about staying on?”

Riis reaches down to the holster on her thigh and flicks open a knife. The child, curious about this new toy in her hand, edges forward to grab it. She pushes him back with one hand and slices the fruit in two.

Without looking at the Mandalorian, she says, “Let me sleep on it.”

She slices the fruit and hands a piece to the child, then takes one and puts it in her mouth. The kid already has Meiloorun fruit juice all over his face.

In the blink of an eye, the child demolishes his entire share and tries to dive in for the rest, but not before Riis grabs him by the collar and pulls him away from it.

“Don’t be greedy,” she chides in a light tone. “Save some for your dad.”

The Mandalorian angles his helmet at her, and she returns his gaze with a smirk.

“I’m not his dad.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she grins. Then, pointing at him with a slice of fruit, “You sure you’re not a furry green whatsit under there?”

He sighs with mock irritation. “It’s late in the night cycle,” he says. “Maybe you should get some rest.”

Riis turns to look at cot in the cramped crew quarters.

“It’s not much,” he says when she turns around to face him.

“It’ll do,” she says quietly. After dumping the rest of the Meiloorun fruit into a bowl and swiping some food packets from the table, Riis pushes them all into the Mandalorian’s hands.

He stands there for a moment without moving. “Think about what I said,” he says.

“I will,” she replies, picking up the child and holding him out to the Mandalorian. Then, with a wink, she says, “Have a good night.”

With an amused huff, the Mandalorian accepts the Meiloorun fruit covered child being deposited into his arms, then makes his way up to the cockpit to seal himself – and the kid – in for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, these two. So awkward and so lonely. Fifteen years have passed, so it'll take some time for them to warm up to each other (but not too long). :p


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still awkward from years of being apart, Solveig and Din contemplate how to bridge the gap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Rubs hands. Puts a leeeetle more kindling on this slow burn*

Alone in the cargo hold with nothing but her thoughts, Solveig sits at the foot of the cot mulling over the present and the past.

She has just sent the Mandalorian – the new one in all that shiny beskar armour – upstairs with an armload of food . . . and a baby. In all her musings over what he could be doing all these years, never would she have thought of him in a situation like this. But in every way that it all seemed strange and unexpected, it also felt very right. For some reason, it felt right that a man encased in heavy armour should protect a child, not simply because it was what a Mandalorian should do, but because it was Din Djarin who had decided to do it.

Din, who could be outnumbered by hostiles and still come out on top.

Thinking back to the transport, she remembers the swagger of his broad shoulders, the way he leans into the quick draw of his blaster, his menacing stance, muscles taut and lethal. Everything a Mandalorian is supposed to be, and he has become it. And now, sitting by herself in the empty cargo hold, she realizes that everything she is – Echani warrior and woman – desires everything he is.

Old yearnings assail her like smoky shadows wisping along her body, memories of his arms wrapped around her waist, his helmet to her forehead, She wants to slide her hands around his neck, feel the weight of his hands, to plant her lips somewhere, if only to be close. Solveig lets out a long exhale and leans forward, sinking her head into her hands.

When she closes her eyes, she sees her last memory of him, stalking away and vaporizing into thin air as he disappears through the snow. Fifteen years ago, she let him go because she thought it was for the best, but if she’s honest with herself, there have been times she second-guessed her decision that day on Alzoc III.

But seeing him today, after watching him take down the patrol droids with swift precision, the way he tried to save the transport guard, learning that he had gone back on a job to save a kid – all these things impress her with how he has come into his own for the better. She reflects that he seems more focused now, more secure in his purpose. And she realizes, now years later, that letting him go then was the right thing to do after all.

Her younger self would have been proud to see him become the confident, self-sufficient man he is today. Once long ago, he wanted to take off his helmet – break The Creed – and walk away from it all _for her_. And although he has walked The Way all this time, a small part of her present self also feels a sense of loss, surmising that he has moved on so far that there can’t possibly be room for her in his current life. That even though he has asked her to stay and help him with the child, she can’t help feeling that it is a pragmatic request, not a personal one.

She scrubs her hands over her face, irritated for wanting someone that she can’t have. After all, her people only live to fight and fight to live. It doesn’t really matter what she wants, does it?

It has only been a year since Alva passed, and still, Solveig does not know what to do with herself. She feels guilty every time she entertains the thought of pursuing something for herself or hopes for a future that might mean being loved in return. Take time off maybe. Kick her feet up on some backwater planet, find someone to settle down with. Have a family of her own.

Tears that rarely reveal themselves well up in her eyes as she laughs mournfully at the last thought. Riis doesn’t know the first thing about family life. Thinking about it fills her with a sense of gloom, because she never knew her parents: They died when she was too young to remember them. She blinks, and a few tears fall on her cheeks.

_Little Sister. You’ve always been so straight-edged._

_If I don’t practice, Bashra will have my hide._

_What does it matter what Bashra thinks? What the Echani council thinks? We’re just their gears of war, anyway._

_What about “Personal happiness is civic duty”?_

_A bunch of Bantha fodder._

_Then why haven’t you left? You’re of age._

_Because of you, Ewok Face._

_I don’t need protection, Alva._

_Sure as hell don’t, little Echani. But we need to stick together. Then, when_ you _come of age, we’ll g_ _et outta here and live happily ever after. So come on. Let’s skip morning training and have some fun._

_Bashra will know I didn’t practice. You know what that means._

_Y_ _eah, so what? Don’t you wanna do what_ you _want for once?_

Alva had always been the brave one. Outspoken and brash, she was also punished more. As a girl, Solveig marvelled how Alva would endure the beatings and keep on doing as she pleased. She was incorrigible. But she also knew the value in following one’s own path. If Alva hadn’t been incapacitated in that blast long ago, she would have wanted Solveig to find her own way. _To be happy._

She exhales and looks at the cargo hold where she had confronted the Mandalorian after the job in Mustafar and when he had helped her with her coat before stepping out on Alzoc III. Before her eyes, the memories of the past fill up the empty spaces of the hold like spectres bound to their eternal hauntings.

Blinking away her few remaining tears, she wipes her face and stands up. She stares out the porthole and watches the streaming light of hyperspace flash by.

The years have come and gone. So much time has been lost. And now Din has asked her to stay and help him with the child. Should she accept his offer? Is it wise? In doing so, she fully knows she’s at risk for hoping too much, hoping for something that might be impossible. She weighs all the consequences of such a decision as a force of habit. No Echani woman is supposed to allow herself to be ruled by the heart.

But Solveig left Eshan long ago, and there is no one else in the galaxy left to live for, except herself.

In the flickering light of hyperspace, she makes her decision. It’s a risk she’ll take, not because she should, but for the first time in her life, it’s because it is what she wants.

* * *

_Let me sleep on it._

In the silence of the cockpit, the Mandalorian feels restless. The anticipation of Riis’ answer gnaws at him, as does the inability to control the outcome. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. Maybe too many years have passed, and she won’t want anything more to do with him.

The child, however, is asleep again, passed out in his pod that is resting on the co-pilot’s chair to his right. Gentle snores fill the cockpit as the Mandalorian ruminates over the second monumental surprise that has appeared in his life since finding the kid.

Solveig Riis.

The only woman he has ever known to beg him to keep his helmet on.

The one to whom his present self owes his existence.

All this explains why, upon seeing her after so many years, the Mandalorian thought he was seeing a ghost standing in Ran’s outpost. She had been haunting his thoughts for years on end since that fateful day on Alzoc III. It had been her voice he would hear, woven into his own and combined with the tenets of The Way, to guide him through every decision of his life after that point.

Thinking back to when he first met Solveig, he remembers himself as an angry, somewhat lost young man. He remembers when he resented the armour, The Creed – all of it – and considered walking away from it all for her. But now, after twenty-five years of following The Way, he has become symbiotically bound to the armour and the way of his people, finding consolation in its forthrightness and simplicity. It also reminds him every day of who he is and what he stands for.

Now that Riis is back in his life, something feels different. Not that his feelings for her have changed, but in the way that he wants her. He is more comfortable in his skin – more precisely, in his armour. Then, it was all or nothing, and his many years of experience has taught him that he doesn’t have to abandon everything if he wants to be with her this time.

Sitting back in his seat, the Mandalorian stares into the constant beams of light flickering past the windows. He closes his eyes, and lets his breath slow, allowing a scene from the past to return to his mind:

_The flush of her lips._

_The mesmerizing pull of her expanded pupils._

_The warmth of her body against his._

_Her hands dragging along his neck._

He has replayed that memory over the course of fifteen years using it to assuage the unfulfilled yearnings of a solitary life – and he relives it now, his heart pounding as he imagines the feel of her curves beneath his hands. Gods, how much he wanted her then, and how much he wants her still. All of this, he knows he could have – and more – but only if she wishes it.

Because he knows _now_ that there are ways.

The code he lives by is not always so black and white, especially when it comes to relationships with outsiders. A quarter century of living The Way has taught him there are certain exceptions to the rules.

But he worries: Maybe the exceptions won’t be enough, and he will lose her again.

The sound of movement pulls him from his thoughts. Twisting around in his chair, he sees Riis already standing at the entryway of the cockpit looking markedly different. Instead of her black tactical outfit, she has changed into a white long-sleeved top and dark grey trousers tucked into her usual black boots. Her hair has been untied, its length now flowing in loose waves past her shoulders. All the same, perhaps because he knows what she’s capable of, he thinks that the casual appearance doesn’t make her appear any less dangerous.

“I see the _Crest_ has held up all this time . . .,” she pauses before adding, “just barely.”

“She’s been through a lot in fifteen years.”

Riis hums without answering, her gaze taking in the cockpit as if trying to match what she sees with what she remembers. The Mandalorian wonders if she remembers how he held her here on his lap, in this very seat, his head pressed against hers in that intimate embrace. He swallows thickly.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, freeing his tongue.

Crossing her arms and leaning against the entryway, she continues to study the cockpit, then lands her gaze on the dozing child.

“The cot down there’s worse than a med stretcher. You should take mine.” He ticks his chin to the sealed doors behind her. “It’s through there.”

Finally, Riis shakes her head. “It’s not the cot,” she says flatly. “Just too much on my mind.”

“I don’t see why,” he says with a smile behind the helmet. “Nothing out of the ordinary today.”

Riis scoffs. “Nothing at all.”

“Just a run-in with old friends.”

“Just one,” she says.

Her offhand remark makes him pause as it shines before him like vein of spice exposed within rock. From his experience, even the smallest hint Riis divulges about her opinions or inner thoughts must be gently excavated in order to find the full deposit. But before he can uncover more, the opportunity is lost when her voice cuts through the silence.

“I thought about your offer.”

The Mandalorian waits, commanding his body into a nonchalant posture when in fact he is bracing for her rejection. He is expecting that she’ll say, “No thanks” and disappear right out of his life again.

“I’ll do it,” she says soberly. “But only if you’re certain you won’t regret having me around.”

Initially, the Mandalorian is pleased to hear that she has accepted his offer, but the feeling is quickly replaced by surprise. He did not expect her to think that he wouldn’t truly want her to stay.

He frowns behind the helmet. “I don’t know what you could mean.”

Riis shifts uncomfortably. “You have your life. I have mine. I wouldn’t want to get in your way.”

“Don’t have much of a life right now for you to get in the way of. The kid takes up most of it until I can figure out what to do with him. In the meantime, I could really use your help.”

“You really care about him, don’t you?” she says.

“Sometimes I wonder if the little womp rat has cast a spell on me – but I suppose, yeah.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Not one I know of.”

“You did a good thing,” she says. “Saving him.”

“He saved me first,” he says with a sigh.

“What do you mean? He’s just a kid.”

“He stopped a mudhorn from killing me. With his mind.”

Riis looks at him in disbelief, then shifts her gaze to the tiny form sleeping in the pod. “With his mind,” she repeats slowly.

“Yeah.”

“No wonder the Imps want him so badly. Any idea what they were going to do with him?”

“No – but an Imp scientist was there. It couldn’t have been good.”

“I’m glad you did it. You were right to take him back, even if it meant betraying the Guild.”

“I burned a lot of bridges that day,” he says quietly, flexing his hands. “Seems that’s what I’m best at doing.”

Purposefully, the Mandalorian drops an allusion to events of the past in effort to dig a little deeper into Riis’ mysterious thoughts – specifically, about him – and wonders if she’ll take the bait. He sees her pause for a split second and he knows, in that instant, that she is remembering how he betrayed her, how they parted. Instead, she chooses to bypass his comment.

“That’s not true. You were impressive on the transport.”

“You saw everything, didn’t you, up in the rafters?”

Riis points two fingers to her eyes, then back at him. “You were _fast, precise, economical_.”

He remembers those words. He remembers holding her in his arms saying this exact phrase in this very seat. Immediately, his face grows hot. He huffs. “When I want to be.”

Riis’ face becomes very serious now. “You were just as I knew you would be. After I saw you with the child, the way you wanted to protect him. The way you handled the guard – that was the good man I knew.”

A weighted silence falls between them as the Mandalorian ponders what she has just said. “I’ve kept my vow to The Way just as you urged me to.”

“And do you regret it?”

“No.”

“And why is that?”

“I know where I belong and to whom my service is due. I take pride in the armour, in my identity as a Mandalorian. I wouldn’t have come to understand this if it wasn’t for you.”

“It was the only way,” she says quietly, “once upon a time.”

“Seems like a lifetime ago,” he says, “when I last saw you.”

“Yes. When we were young and stupid.”

He snorts. “I suppose that now makes us old and wise.”

Against the light of hyperspace, Riis’ face glows with a predatory-like focus fixed on his visor. Still leaning against the doorway, her once relaxed posture has become taut and full of lethal potential, with head down, eyes narrowed.

“Come here,” she commands.

The Mandalorian is not sure what this all means, tilting his head to one side and examining her body language. Then slowly, he gets up from the pilot's seat and takes the few steps needed to close the distance. She doesn’t move, not from the doorway, not even a muscle. Her eyes stare at him unblinkingly, and even he can’t make out whether or not she is breathing. Then, a small grin twists from the corner of her mouth, breaking the spell, just before she grabs his arm and slams him against the wall.

“Who’re you calling _old_?” she says with a hint of a snarl, her face now close to his.

Taken aback, the Mandalorian surges into a fight response, foreseeing an out by seizing her wrists and stunning her with a head butt. But nothing comes to pass when he realizes that Riis has let out a small, but discernible laugh.

_“Heh.”_

Still tense, the Mandalorian rolls his eyes behind the helmet. _Echani women and their sense of_ _humour,_ he thinks to himself.

“Careful,” he rasps. “You’ll throw my back out.”

Riis, he observes, has schooled her lips back into a slight smirk, and as much as he wants to put his hands around her waist and pull her in, he resists, still unsure if this is a come-on or a challenge. In the back of his mind, he still worries that Solveig has never forgiven him for that foolhardy moment with Xi’an.

“You should be taking better care of yourself, _old man,_ ” she teases.

“Not much time for that,” he replies.

“You’ve let yourself go,” she jibes with a smirk.

“Armour still fits.”

She taps his chestplate with a finger. “This thing? You’re like a walking target.”

“You were never for drawing attention to yourself.”

“And _you_ can’t help it.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Coming after me – it’s an ego thing.”

“Is that so?”

“They see the armour as an invitation. To see if they can take me down.”

“Funny, it’s the same with me. They see that I’m a woman. _That,_ in their minds, is the invitation.”

The Mandalorian shifts. All joking aside, he sees the gravity of her statement – the life of a female in this galaxy in which she does not earn her armour, but is born into it.

“At least you have the advantage of being underestimated.”

“But the armour – yours and mine – they all want to see what’s under it, don’t they?”

Still holding him against the wall with her hands against his chestplate, Riis is so close that he can see all the freckles across her nose and the pink blush on her lips. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, so much like when they were last this close and so eager. If they stay like this any longer, he’s not going to be able to hide how he feels about being pressed up against her.

“Who we are,” he breathes.

“Yes.”

Ever so slowly, he reaches up and places his hands over her forearms giving them a gentle squeeze, both in tenderness and as a precaution if she decides to assault him again with those hands. Riis, on the other hand, doesn’t give away a single reaction.

After a long and heavy silence, she finally releases him as if nothing just happened.

“It’s very late,” she says, stepping away, “And you’re talking my ear off, Mandalorian.”

His mouth opens to form a response, but issues a grunt in amused annoyance instead. She throws him a mischievous smile over her shoulder before punching the open button for the rear doors to his quarters.

“Hope you can sleep,” she calls out before the hatch slides shut behind her.

The Mandalorian stands in the cockpit watching her disappear behind the doors, body strung tight and hands balled into fists. When he is finally alone, he lets himself relax and he drops his head back with a long, cathartic sigh. Turning to the sleeping child, he mutters, “No chance of sleeping after _that_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all are still enjoying this story! I am surprised at myself for how dedicated I've been to it, lol. It's the first time I've written such a large piece of fanfic with such a drive to see it through from beginning to end. Drop me a comment any time to let me know how you're enjoying it! As always, I appreciate it! <3 <3 <3


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solveig wakes up in Mando's room and snoops a bit.  
> Oh, and the kid is hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait to put this chapter out, but I just had to publish it. I had way too much fun writing it!  
> And WAHOO, over 1,000 hits. Yay, thank you all for reading!

When Solveig wakes, it is because the room has gradually become brighter as the ship’s day cycle has kicked in. Turning on to her side, she stays a moment with her eyes closed and buries her face into the warm sheet.

_Kriff, he smells so good._

His scent is earthy and musky, with a hint of engine fuel and blaster fire. But its cumulative smell is what captivates her at this moment, reminding her of the cloak he once handed her on Ran’s ship ages ago when he thought she was cold. She wraps herself up in his blanket just as she did that day.

It’s amazing how a scent can draw out a memory and render it living and as fully formed as the moment it happened.

As she lays there half asleep and enjoying the warmth and scent of the sheet, her mind drifts off to their brief but close-up encounter last night in the cockpit. A slight embarrassment washes over her at the memory:

She remembers how he sat in the pilot’s seat without moving, without giving her anything to work with, and the cockpit was too small a space to have a proper Echani duel to suss out his thoughts. It was all her pent-up emotion and frustration that came out as she slammed him against the wall to get even the tiniest read on him. But she got one. Faint as it was, she saw a murky shape of his thoughts – his desire for her locked behind a cage of restraint.

Down below, Solveig’s attention is roused by noises echoing up from the cargo hold. Through the layers of steel and wire, she hears the Mandalorian’s muffled voice followed by loud squeals and babbling. Another rumble of his voice. She laughs to herself.

It’s a good reason, she thinks, to get up. Swinging her feet off the cot, Solveig takes a moment to let her brain wake up and to take a look around Din’s quarters. She’s never been here before, and it doesn’t surprise her that the small, enclosed room is completely void of any personal belongings.

Has he always carried nothing with him, except for his weapons and his armour?

Solveig stands to examine the room and finds a wall with inset panels that look like a closet and some drawers. Tentatively, wondering if there are any rules against looking through a Mandalorian’s quarters, she touches the edge of the largest closet door, which makes a click as it opens.

Inside, the closet reveals nothing wholly unexpected: a few spare flight suits, a belt, another pair of boots. Closing the door, she wanders over to the drawers, which also click open when she gives them a push.

The first one reveals spare gloves, the same ones he wears at all times. These ones seem new, as the leather feels stiff and unyielding in her hands. It is strange, she thinks, smoothing her fingers over the gloves, to hold them with no one inhabiting them.

The next drawer rattles with an assortment of screws, bolts and parts of what look like an old vambrace. But before she closes the drawer, a glint from a familiar looking object catches her eye: A piece of dark glass in the shape of a T, but with a crack spidering out from the centre. An old visor.

Picking it up between her fingers, Solveig looks through one side and sees the room clearly even with the cracks obscuring her view. Turning it around, she sees nothing but her own reflection. An eerie sensation creeps down her spine as though she is staring at the Mandalorian’s face and that he is staring back, watching her rifle through his things.

All of a sudden, Solveig feels like a child doing something forbidden, except, she reminds herself, that it’s just a piece of broken glass. Shutting the drawer, she lets out a deep breath and decides to look in one more.

There is nothing to remark upon when Solveig opens it, only that the drawer contains a few tunics the same colour as his grey flightsuit but are much lighter in material. They look like regular, long-sleeved shirts with a partial button-down neckline and no collar. It suddenly strikes her as strange to think that Din wears anything other than the armour and flightsuit. She chuckles softly as she passes a hand over the soft material and wonders if she’ll ever get a chance to see him in one. But the moment takes a backseat when she sees something hard and angled tucked into the back of the drawer.

Without hesitation, she grasps the object and pulls it out, surprised by the familiar way it feels in her hand. Somewhere in her subconscious, she knows what it is before she even sees it, and nearly stops breathing when she discovers that she is right.

_The Echani Decalogue._

The book delineating all ten Echani principles of conduct. The instrument of childhood torture. She doesn’t have to look inside to know what is written inside. It had been beaten into her flesh and soul until she could recite the entire thing from memory.

When did he get this book? Has he had it long?

The only reason she can think why Din has this in his possession is because of _her_ , perhaps to feel close to her in some way after all these years. There is no other reason she can think of as to why he would have this book. The pages are old and worn, and she imagines him lying on his cot, thumbing through all of the tedious rules and codes, thinking of her. Not the most exciting thing to be associated with, but Solveig bites back a smile.

Downstairs, she hears the sound of the kid squawking loudly, immediately followed by a resounding clang. Swiftly, she returns the book to its hiding spot, careful to arrange it the way it was found. Sounds like the Mandalorian needs help with the little rascal after all.

 _Better go do what I was hired for_ , she thinks.

Pulling herself away from his belongings, Solveig decides she needs a quick shower before joining the two of them downstairs, so she makes her way to the fresher room and again finds a sterile, bare environment. Inside is a cramped fresher, a rack with some clean towels and a sink, over which is a small, slightly chipped mirror.

 _Huh_ , she thinks, peering at her own reflection. Staring back is her thirty-five-year-old self, with faint lines around her eyes and mouth, white strands against waves of black.

“A few more years and I’ll actually look Echani,” she says to herself.

While looking in the mirror, it occurs to her that this is the only thing that’s ever seen his face. She wonders then what his eyes look like when they stare back in this reflection, what his smile does to his face when the corners of his lips lift and maybe crease around the eyes. The thought of it causes goosebumps to prickle her skin, and she suddenly feels too acutely the chill of steel against her bare feet. Breaking off her musings, she reaches inside the fresher and turns it on to warm up the water. When mist begins to fill the small space and fogs up the mirror, she traces a long, curved shape down the middle of her blurred reflection, ending her drawing with a decisive dot.

A question mark.

* * *

On her way down the ladder to the cargo hold, Solveig hears the Mandalorian talking to the child in his firm but quiet manner.

“That’s the chamber, here's the barrel. Try not to wind up on the other side of it. _And don't touch that_.”

When she climbs low enough to see him, he is sitting at the counter with the child, his back toward her. Veg-meat pieces are strewn on the table as are crumbs from what might have been a loaf of polystarch. She can’t see the child, however, as it appears he is fully ensconced on the Mandalorian’s lap. Once in a while, his small green hands can be seen reaching up, trying to grab the blaster in his hands.

Solveig smiles at the scene. She doesn’t think she could ever tire of seeing Din being so sweet to a child, even if he is showing the kid how to assemble a blaster pistol.

The child makes various babbling sounds, and from her position, Solveig can see his claws tapping at the dark glass of Din’s visor. The Mandalorian gently encloses the small hands in his owns and sets them down. Soon, the child begins to produce sucking noises followed by urgent little cries.

“Eh, eh, eh!”

The Mandalorian sighs. “How can you be hungry again?”

Solveig stifles a laugh, but not well enough. Din turns in his seat, his gaze now fixed on her perch on the ladder.

“Good, she's awake,” he says with feigned testiness.

The child coos at the sight of her. She hops off the ladder to join the Mandalorian and his charge by the table. Taking a handful of food packets and two bowls, Solveig grabs a canteen and a discarded spoon and lays the items neatly in an assembly line. She rips open two packets and empties them completely into two separate bowls, then applies a small amount of water to each of them. Stirring briskly with the spoon, she then leaves the bowls for the polystarch packet, of which she peels the packaging back carefully and adds a few drops of water. Within minutes, the bread-like loaf rises with a fizzle, and Solveig has a couple bowls of stew and a small roll.

“You eaten yet?” she asks the Mandalorian.

“Yeah, about half an hour ago.”

“Hm,” she says, reaching over and stroking the child’s nose. At the sight of the food, the little green one begins squirming and fussing, so Solveig scoops him out of the Mandalorian’s arms and settles down on the seat next to him. She props the kid on one thigh, turning him so she can see him and grabs the spoon before he can get his claws on it.

The Mandalorian is now leaning toward her, bearing most of his weight on his elbow. Somehow, under all that armour, Solveig can tell he is tired by the way he languidly rests against the table, and she wonders if he got any sleep during the night cycle at all. The thought makes her feel just a twinge guilty for stirring him up and taking his bed and as she watches him sit there like a sleepy statue unable to move from watching her and the kid.

“We’re nearing Gaulus space in an hour,” he says softly.

Solveig brings a stew-laden spoon toward the child’s mouth, and as if the kid needs encouragement to eat, she instinctively opens her mouth as well, her eyebrows raised.

“What’s the plan when we land?” she asks rather distractedly, now wiping the child’s mouth with a dirty cloth from his previous meal.

“There’s always a chance we’ll run into trouble even out here, so we’ll need to be careful.”

“Go into town, get supplies, get out?”

“If it’s a good day, yes.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Either way, we’ll have to split up. I’ll take the kid and get the rations we need. I want you at a distance, keeping an eye out.”

Solveig nods at the same time she is flying the spoon toward the child in circles like crazed starship. In response, the kid whoops with joy, his mouth open in amazement. Then, she slides the spoon in and the child giggles while slurping down his stew.

“You know you don’t have to convince him to eat,” the Mandalorian says flatly.

Solveig shrugs and ignores his remark. “I’ll watch your back,” she says, spooning more stew into the child’s mouth.

“I know,” he says with distinct sincerity in his tone. He seems to be staring at her now, and Solveig can’t help thinking about the broken visor glass in his quarters and what happened to cause that crack.

Then, at length, the Mandalorian breaks the silence and heaves himself onto his feet. “I’ve got to start landing protocol soon. You good with the kid?”

With a glance up at him, Solveig nods in affirmation. But even after another few beats, he doesn’t leave, and she wonders if he’s going to ask her about last night’s scuffle in the cockpit. Instead, he slowly extends his arm toward her and, for a moment, she thinks he’s about to return the favour. But to her surprise, he reaches over and gently wipes a blotch of stew from her face.

His hand lingers for a moment, and all of a sudden, Solveig feels a flush rise in her cheeks. Without a word, he slides his hand to cup the back of her neck, freeing his thumb to brush her lips. He stays there for another beat, before dropping his hand and petting the child between the ears.

It is Solveig’s turn to be taken aback, as she watches him turn his heel and disappear up the ladder into the cockpit. She remains staring at the ladder, dazed with the remembrance of his hand on her face, when she hears scuffling and a coo. When she turns, she finds the child sitting on the table slurping loudly, with _her_ bowl of stew and _her_ portion of polystarch gone, reduced to crumbs and splashes on the kid’s tunic front.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love that so many of you are vibing with this story, my OC + Mando, and all the unresolved tension between them. Again, thank you all for reading, following along silently and/or dropping me kudos and comments. Thank you, thank you.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solveig and Mando land on Gaulus to pick up rations.  
> Things heat up quite literally.

Standing at the edge of the open cargo ramp as the rain drips off the _Razor Crest_ forms the impression of waiting inside the mouth of a dark, dank cave. Gaulus, as it turns out, is a rainy planet – lush, humid, green – and very, very wet.

From the moment the cargo ramp opened, Solveig immediately felt the rush of chilly, moist air on her face thickly redolent of a nectarous, spicy fragrance of wet earth, resin and moss. Standing with her hands on her hips, face pointed upward, she hears, somewhere amongst the foliage, the musical calls of feathered creatures and the steady, soothing chirps of small insects. It’s a welcome change from the vacuous hum and stagnant air of the _Razor Crest,_ and she takes a long, splendid minute to take it all in.

With her rucksack hung over a shoulder, its weight reminds her presently to gear up and get ready. Dropping it to the floor, she unzips the bag and searches for the weapons in question. In only a few minutes, Solveig has found, checked and holstered everything she needs: Two blasters, several knives sheathed on her thigh and finally, her rifle and retractable staff.

“We’re not entering a war zone,” the Mandalorian says, eyeing her from his position. He is standing further in the hold at his open weapons locker, not selecting blasters or any other equipment, but holding the child against his chestplate while struggling to wrap a long swath of cloth around them both. Meanwhile, the kid, so close to the Mandalorian’s helmet, does what he enjoys best by drumming a beat on his guardian’s visor.

Solveig tuts softly and walks over to them. The first thing she does is close her hands over the child’s little hands.

“No,” she says firmly, giving them a little shake. The child blinks and obediently puts them down.

Then she takes the ends of the cloth from the Mandalorian and pulls them tight around him and the kid. Bringing the ends around his back, Riis leans forward until her cheek rests against the child’s as she hugs them both in order to bring the cloth forward again. The kid lets out a little squeak when she gives one last tug and ties it off, tucking the loose ends of the cloth into the wrap.

“Good?”

The Mandalorian nods, looking down at her, staring for a moment too long. She returns his gaze, reaching up to pat the child on the head who resorts to sucking on his hands while enfolded snugly against the Mandalorian, leaving a line of drool on his chestplate. Riis lets out a chuckle, dropping her hand from the child and gently grazes the inside of the Mandalorian’s palm. For a moment, she feels his fingertips curl around hers and they stand there surrounded by the sounds of the child slurping and the rainforest beckoning them outside.

“Poor kid is hungry again,” she says, looking up at him.

“Then we better get going.”

* * *

The trek into town takes less than half an hour through dense, green ferns, low-hanging trees and a myriad tangle of vines. And though the greenery is pleasant to behold, Solveig only sees countless potential hiding places. Her eyes are watchful, tense.

With bounty hunters and Imperials potentially looking for the Mandalorian and the child, she knows full well that anybody could have been following them since Ran’s outpost. Not even Gaulus’ status as a remote Outer Rim planet offers any real promise of protection.

While they walk, she scans the shadows within the verdant jungle, looking for any signs of movement, but all she hears is the quiet babble of the child and the soggy slurping of their footsteps through the wet ground.

At last, they reach the edge of a small town that looks like it’s in process of being swallowed by the rainforest. Long vines descend toward the wooden buildings, almost choking all sunlight from the sky while mossy growth clings to the roofs. Leading to the centre of town is a wide, muddy path that opens into an even muddier town square. At the sight of the dirty puddles, the kid squirms to get out of his bind presumably to play in the mud below.

“Easy, kid,” the Mandalorian whispers.

“He can play in the sink when we get back,” Solveig offers with a smile.

The Mandalorian tilts his helmet in agreement. “Womp rat _is_ past due for a bath.”

They stand there in the shadows of the trees, looking over the town together.

“So this is it,” she says.

“Yeah. Rations shouldn’t be hard to find. I won’t be long.”

Solveig nods and unslings her sniper rifle. “I won’t be far.”

Just before leaving, the Mandalorian turns to her and slides his hand into hers.

“Stay safe,” he says.

“You too,” she replies, squeezing his hand.

Solveig watches the Mandalorian wade out of the jungle brush and into the town as a light smattering of rain hits his reflective beskar helmet and splashes cold drops on her skin. Not long after, she follows, keeping her distance and slipping into darkened alleyways when she gets the chance. Eventually, the Mandalorian finds a rations merchant and disappears into the building. Solveig, in turn, stations herself in an alleyway across the square with a clear view of the store. 

From her position, she sees a few humanoids and sentient species roaming the square. None seem to notice her hiding in the alley, sidled up against the wall. The town seems even more backwater than any other backwater place she’s ever been and wonders if it’s possible for them to hide here in the jungle for a little while longer.

_The three of them._

Solveig feels an odd mixture of hope and wariness at the thought. The past few days have borne revelations and sentiments that she thought were no longer possible, and her heart feels almost too full in a way she hasn’t felt since she was last with Din so many years ago.

Nevertheless, she can’t foresee the outcome of all this.

Even though something akin to their past intimacy is there, she wonders if a meaningful future will come of it, as he has already sworn himself to The Way and his creed. He follows them comfortably now, but how does she fit in all of it? Is it even possible?

The rain begins to fall more steadily now, dripping down her hair and into her eyes. She feels a distinct wet chill make its way through her clothes, causing her hairs to stand on end. But this, she thinks, is not the cold; it’s something else . . .

Suddenly, an arm loops around her neck. A blaze of searing pain. Hissing loudly, she looks down and sees the pointed tip of a large knife sticking out of her right shoulder.

 _Karking Echani rules always prove themselves right,_ she thinks.

“Look what we got here,” rumbles her captor, holding her tightly against his body. From the blue tone of his arms, she guesses he is Chiss.

A grinning Rodian appears, sauntering toward her as she fights the clutches of the Chiss. Then, she feels the arm around her neck tightening to hold her still, just as the Rodian drives forward with a blow to the face.

“Packing so much heat for someone so little,” the smaller green sentient says, snidely.

Amidst the stinging pain of the blow, Solveig narrows her eyes. _First mistake: Talking. Second mistake: Taking his kriffing time._

Before the bug-like alien can get another quip in, she pumps her feet into the air and, using the Chiss’ body as a wall, delivers a blinding kick the Rodian’s face. Landing, she slams her feet to the ground with a splash, and throws her captor, who is nearly twice her size, over her head. As she rolls, she grabs her blaster and just as she unfurls into a crouched position, she shoots them both between the eyes.

Her white shirt and grey pants now splattered with mud, Solveig examines her surroundings for others. The alley is empty now, except for the bodies of her two assailants. Something red and blinking in the mud catches her eye, and she toes it with her boot. A tracking fob.

Immediately, she looks out toward the square and quickly edges out of the shadows. There, through a streaked curtain of rain, she sees five human bounty hunters approaching the rations store with their weapons drawn.

Without hesitation, Solveig flips her sniper rifle into her hands and fires twice. The shots ring through the air and two hostiles drop to the ground like rag dolls.

Rounding on her position quickly, the last three begin firing their blasters without much aim or skill.

 _Heh_ , she muses, _No wonder there were seven of them_.

Crossing her arms, she shoulders her rifle then withdraws her staff and blaster in one swift movement. With a face looking harder than beskar, Solveig strides unflinchingly toward the bounty hunters, spinning her staff one-handedly with incredible speed.

Every bolt they fire she deflects with the spin of her staff, and as if she’ll tire of whipping around her big metal stick, the men stand there shooting continuous blasts while dumbly watching her close the distance. From afar, her spinning staff looks like a wheel throwing off a wicked centrifugal spray of water.

The nearest one, watching her deflect each and every bolt, panics as she nears and tries to charge her. With a smirk, Solveig twists out of his path and smacks the hunter hard on his backside. The blow sends him sprawling face-first into the mud, and she finishes him quickly with a blast to the head.

When Solveig twists around, she sees that the remaining two hunters have turned and are shooting toward the rations store. It takes her a moment to realize that there, angled behind the entryway, is the Mandalorian returning fire from inside the shop.

It’s a good thing, too, because Solveig now realizes that her injured shoulder is beginning to make it difficult to hold her blaster without shaking. She holsters it and goes two-handed with the staff. Even though her right shoulder is weakened from the wound, she decides she’s better off concentrating her efforts with the staff than to be unreliable with the pistol.

With the last two hunters distracted by the Mandalorian, she approaches the nearest one and slams her staff down on his forearm with a huge crack. The hunter drops the blaster and clutches his arm, but reacts quickly and manages to snatch the end of her staff with his other hand. She grins, because this is what all of them do. They like rods they can yank. And like she predicts, the man jerks her forward. She surges into the momentum, tucking her head and completes a flip kick, her boot heel landing hard on the man’s head. He staggers, trying to steady his blaster, when all of a sudden, his eyes grow wide and he falls flat on his face. Solveig looks up and sees all of the hunters lying in the mud and, between streaks of rain, the blurry form of the Mandalorian with his blaster extended and smoking.

“Done shopping?” she says between breaths.

Rain pours off his helmet as he lowers his pistol and cocks his head. “You’re hurt.”

“A bit. How’s the kid?”

She notices that the wrap is now pulled over the child’s head. The Mandalorian must have lifted it up to shield the kid from the rain. Looking down, he peels back the wrap to peek inside. 

“Sleeping.”

Solveig snorts as he makes his way over to her, hands already on the stab wound on her shoulder.

“It’s deep,” he says, gently prodding with his gloves.

“I said it’s nothing.”

“Looks a lot more than nothing.”

Solveig looks down. She hadn’t had time to examine her wound during the fray, and her entire right shoulder and down to her waist is covered in blood.

“Hm,” she says curiously.

The Mandalorian has her chin in his hand now, forcing her to look up at him.

“We need to get back to the Crest,” he says, wiping mud from her face. “Patch you up. Get off this rock.”

He drops his hand, tracing his fingers down the length of her arm, then places it in her palm. Giving it a light tug, he says, “C’mon.”

Solveig nods and blinks away the rain falling on her face, soaking her hair, her clothes, her skin. Probably best, she thinks, as she begins to feel slightly dizzy and too chilled for her liking. They hurry out of the square and disappear into the jungle once again.

* * *

Back on the _Crest_ , Solveig breathes relief when the cargo ramp begins to close. The Mandalorian moves silently under the harsh glare of the artificial lights, gathering various bottles and bandages from his medical cabinet. Leaning against the wall, Solveig feels the weight of her own body too keenly and drops her rifle on the floor with a clang.

The Mandalorian twists his head to look at her, then opens another cabinet and stalks across the hold to where she is standing. He thrusts a ration bar into her hand.

Solveig manages to nod, feeling sleepy and too kriffing cold all at once. Then, he pushes a thick gauze pad onto the wound, grabs her hand and gets her to hold it there.

“Press hard,” he commands.

Quickly, he returns to the medical cabinet and finishes gathering his supplies. She only manages one bite of the bar before he returns, ordering her to stay awake enough to climb up the ladder. When she makes it to the cockpit, she begins to shiver violently, and the Mandalorian pushes her through the rear doors to his quarters and says, “Grab a blanket. Get warm. I’ll be right back.”

She obeys, trembling her way toward his quarters and fumbling with the controls to open the doors. Inside, the room’s lights turn on automatically to a soft glow. Grasping the edge of a woollen blanket from his cot, she pulls it around herself and sits down.

Outside, she hears the thrusters fire to life and feels the ship rumble as it lifts from the ground. It only takes a few more moments to clear the turbulence of the planet’s atmosphere and feel the familiar, steady vacuum of space.

Not long after, the Mandalorian’s armoured form appears at the doorway. He is without the child, carrying the same bundle of medical supplies he had gathered from downstairs. Striding toward her, he drops his armload on the cot and pulls the blanket more solidly around her shoulders. Then, sitting down, he gets her to face him so he can peel back the hole in her shirt to get a better look.

“I’m going to have to cut this off,” he says flatly.

“C-c-can’t have it. N-n-need my arm,” she says, shivering with a smirk.

The Mandalorian huffs. “You know what I mean.” Drawing his knife, he carefully cuts away her sleeve at the shoulder.

“D-don’t get too excited now,” she mumbles, as he grabs the remaining material and rips it clean off.

He says nothing, but slowly and tantalizingly, begins to peel his gloves from his hands. Staring in astonishment, Solveig watches as he tears open an alcohol pad and applies it to her incision.

Solveig hisses from the sting momentarily, then returns to look down at his bare hands touching her shoulder. Disoriented from the pain and the chill settling into her bones, she can hardly believe what she’s looking at. His skin, she observes, is like golden sand darkened by the ebbing tide, having left behind wave patterns in the form of ripples and ridges of veins and fine creases on the back of his hand.

“Don’t get too excited now,” he says back to her, deadpan, while glancing up at her.

It is her turn to say nothing, as she remains captivated, not just with the sight of his hands, but also their heat against her cold, wet skin. She forgets the chill for a moment when she imagines what it might be like to have them all over her, and a flush races up her neck and into her face.

If the Mandalorian senses what she is thinking, he gives nothing away, but continues tending to her wound in a fastidious manner. After applying a thorough spray of bacta on the front and back of her shoulder, he peels back two hydroproof bandages and sticks them to either side of the incision.

Standing now, he looks at her as if examining his handiwork.

“Try not to move that arm,” he says, moving to clear the medical supplies from the cot.

Solveig nods slowly, now feeling the numbing effects of the bacta keeping the pain at bay and making her feel rather drowsy. The chill from the rain, however, clings stubbornly to her, and her teeth begin to chatter.

“Kriff,” he says hurriedly, looking at her again, “You’re freezing.”

“W-w-et clothes,” she mutters.

He studies her for a moment, then takes one of his shirts from a drawer and hands it to her. 

“Turn around and hold still,” he orders. Unsheathing his knife, he slices her shirt down the centre, revealing a sliver of her back from nape to waist. Quickly, he turns his back to her.

“Get dressed. I’ll wait outside the door.”

Still sitting on the cot, Solveig watches as the sliding doors shut behind him. Carefully, she lets the pieces of her torn shirt fall off her shoulders, wincing as she shucks the sleeves from her arms. Next, she unbuckles her belt and unzips her dripping, mud-soaked pants. Sighing, she stands in order to peel herself free of them then looks at the shirt he has given her.

Fully unfolded now, his grey tunic seems roomy enough for her to slide her arms through without too much nonsense, so she unbuttons the shirt as far as it will go and slides it on. She only gets stuck once but is able to work her injured arm into the sleeve. Thankfully, she finds that the shirt drops to her upper thighs, enough to keep things satisfactorily decent. Still shivering, she crosses the room and opens the door, finding the Mandalorian leaning against the wall with his ankles crossed. He angles his visor and scrutinizes her with a quick look up then back down.

Feeling self-conscious, Solveig bites her lip and crosses her arms. He turns fully toward her then and places his bare thumb on her bluish lips.

“You’re still shivering,” he says. Hesitantly, he lifts his arms and places his hands around her shoulders.

Slowly, the Mandalorian slides his hands down her arms, and taking a hand, leads her to the cot. This time, it is Solveig who swallows thickly.

“Lie down,” he rasps. Solveig obeys, peeling back the bottom sheet and sliding under it. She reclines rigidly, watching the Mandalorian hovering over her like a metal sentinel.

“Hold on,” he says, before fidgeting with a clasp at his shoulder.

“W-what are you doing?” she asks, still trembling with cold.

Working quickly from the pauldrons down to his vambraces, he places the pieces of his armour in a neat stack on the small table beside the bed.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” he replies, unclasping a cuisse. When he finishes, he unfastens his cloak and throws it over the pile. “Move.”

He chuckles as Solveig stares. Then, she shifts to the far edge of the cot to make room, but the wound stings when she lies on her back, so she turns onto her left side. Seconds later, she feels the thin cot dip with his weight as he shucks off his boots and joins her, pulling the sheet and the woolen blanket over them both.

The cot is small and Solveig immediately feels the heat of his body radiate through his flightsuit and against her back. Gradually, he runs his bare palm across her rib cage until his arm wraps around her belly. It takes another moment for her to acclimatize to this before she can relax in his hold. Softening now, she places her hand on his, caressing the skin of his hand. Behind her, she can hear him gasp softly through the helmet, then he pulls her in closer with a firm hold around the waist.

“Kriff you’re cold,” he mutters into her hair.

“Then warm me up,” she whispers back.

“I’m trying. Not hot enough for you?”

“Not nearly,” she breathes. Playfully, she guides his hand below the waist toward the budding warmth between her thighs, but he resists and reclaims his hold around her waist.

Squeezing her tightly, he rumbles quietly, “No moving that arm, remember?”

“I could lie very still.”

The Mandalorian scoffs loudly. “You lost a lot of blood. You need to rest.”

“Can’t expect me to sleep like this,” she huffs in mock annoyance.

Nuzzling his helmet close to her ear, he whispers exultingly, “Booyah.”

Not expecting his response, Solveig laughs out loud, her shoulders shaking and bumping up against his chest. She curls up even more as the muscles in her belly ache with how hard she is laughing. He, on the other hand flexes his fingers into her stomach, which eggs her on.

Only when she elbows him and lets out a short, “Ow!” does he stop, clamping her injured arm to her side.

“I told you to keep still,” he growls softly.

Solveig finally calms, releasing a long, pleased exhale as she allows her body to dissolve into his, relishing all the ways they are close in this moment. He then snakes his arm back around her waist, smoothing his palm from her ribcage to her navel, and this prompts her to slide her hand on top and interlace her fingers with his.

“It sounds nice when you laugh,” he says, drowsily.

“I might do it more,” she says with a yawn, “if you can beat me in a duel.”

He snorts. “Can’t I just buy you flowers or jewellery, or something that doesn’t involve combat?”

“Not that kind of girl,” she murmurs.

Solveig smiles with her eyes closed, completely enrapt with his warm, solid presence and the cocoon of heat they have made beneath the blankets. It is all too easy now to surrender unconditionally to this sweet, long-desired embrace, and her mind begins to drift, her breathing slowing to a peaceful rhythm. At one point, she thinks he has asked her a question. She wakes slightly with a mumble.

“I said, ‘What does a girl like you want?’ ”

Solveig smiles lazily to herself and says, “For you to stop talking and go to sleep, Mando.”

He scoffs loudly then, squeezing her again with his arm. He commands the lights to turn off and the room is engulfed in darkness. As for Solveig, her only response to this change is a happy hum and a sigh.

While he lies in the dark, listening to the slowed cadence of her breathing and feeling her snug form against him, it doesn’t take long before he, too, falls into a deep and peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for those of you who don't care for the action parts and are looking for the romance. You had to wait till the end for it. Annnnd, it's still burnin' so slow. Stick around, cuz your patience will pay off soon!


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am here to destroy you.  
> WARNING: Rating upped to Explicit. Oh, and you might want to save reading this until you are, maybe, at home. (?!) Definitely NSFW!

In the increasing light of his quarters, the Mandalorian wakes, expecting the space beside him to be empty and cold but finds Solveig still nestled warmly beside him with the sheets tucked up around her face.

For a while, he lies in the dawning artificial light listening to her breathing softly and feeling her warm frame tucked closely to his. Rarely does he sleep a full night, nor does he ever sleep so well, and he realizes that having Solveig so close had made him feel unconcerned over the threats looming to plan their demise.

Slipping his arm from her waist, he unconsciously runs his hand up the length of her arm, then back down. He almost regrets giving her his shirt last night, longing to have access to her skin under his bare hand. Still, he can feel the curves of her well-defined arms beneath the fabric and remembers the speed and skill with which she wielded her staff with one, then both, hands. He had never forgotten how she expertly took on the Kanjiklub goons in the Mustafar system so many years ago. Looks like she hasn’t slowed down since, and he wonders if there’s ever been a time in her life when she hasn’t had to be fighting for survival.

Shifting slightly, Solveig wakens under his touch, then stiffens. With her eyes still closed, she blindly reaches across her body to feel his hand on her shoulder and clasps it for a moment.

“You’re still here,” she mumbles.

Beneath the helmet, he smiles when he hears that she didn’t expect him to stay the night either. It seems neither of them are used to overnight company like this.

“Listening to you snore like a Bantha,” he whispers, leaning into her ear. It doesn’t surprise him now when Solveig gives him a light kick on the shin. He’ll do just about anything to get a smile out of her.

“And you go to bed with your socks on like an old woman,” she razzes.

“Cold feet,” he replies.

Moving to face him, Solveig winces slightly at the pain, then rests on the side of her shoulder as to not put pressure on the wound through the front.

“How’s your shoulder?” he asks.

“It’s sore, but it’s already feeling better. The bacta helped.”

“You did good yesterday,” he says, “I never got to thank you for watching my back.”

“You did,” she says, beaming slightly. “Best thanks I ever had.”

He smiles behind the helmet and skims his bare hand along her arm to her neck and halts, before reaching up and cupping her face. Ever since last night – the first time he had ever touched Solveig’s bare skin – he has longed to caress her face, and he now relishes feeling its silky warmth under his hand and seeing the full blush that blooms across her cheeks as she melts into his touch.

Bending his head down, he touches the forehead of his helmet to hers, and she in turn, runs her hand up to cup the back of his neck. He feels her thumb and fingers clasp around his nape as she begins to knead the tight muscle beneath.

 _Kriff it feels good._ He presses his head against hers a little more to steady himself.

“I’m sorry you had to sleep with your helmet on,” she says quietly.

“I’m used to it,” he replies.

“Hm,” she says, unbelieving. “The stiffness in your neck says otherwise.”

The Mandalorian says nothing, but lets out a groan as she continues to massage the knotted muscles of his neck. In response, his bare fingers find their way into the unbuttoned front of her shirt, just enough to glide his hand over her collarbones.

With his head still pressed to hers, he can see her biting down her bottom lip, and he imagines himself taking that plush flesh between his own teeth and giving it a gentle tug.

His thoughts are interrupted when she nudges her knee under his top leg and slips her thigh beneath it. She pauses a moment there, just before pressing that thigh into his crotch. He releases a sharp gasp now, dragging his breath short, feeling himself begin to throb against the pressure.

Suddenly, the ship jolts, nearly catapulting them both out of the cot. Solveig’s face has changed to one of alarm, before the ship pitches again, and the Mandalorian has to roll some of his weight on top of her to keep her from slamming to the ground. Getting to his feet, he makes a dash out the doors and races to the cockpit.

There, sitting the nav dash is the little green child about to pull a lever.

The Mandalorian rushes forward and rights all the buttons and levers that the child had touched before scooping up the imp and giving him a gentle scolding.

“Ship,” he points at the dash. “Not a toy.”

The child simply blinks at him and babbles something unintelligible. The Mandalorian sighs and stalks back to his quarters with the kid in his arms.

When he returns, Solveig is sitting up in bed with the covers drawn over her.

 _So much for that_ , he sighs inwardly with frustration. “Womp rat got to the ship controls,” he says instead.

“Naughty thing,” she says as he sits back down on the cot with the child. Leaning forward over her knees, Solveig tickles the kid’s nose. “Hard to imagine the Imps wanting this little guy so bad. There were seven of them on Gaulus trying to take him, and we were in the middle of nowhere.”

“You should’ve seen what he did to the mudhorn.”

“How did he stop it, exactly?”

“Not sure. One moment, the mudhorn was about to gore me to death, the next, it was frozen in mid-air. I looked over at the kid, and he had his eyes closed with his hand outstretched. Like he was flexing the air around the beast and paralyzing it. All I know is, the kid gave me time to walk over and strike the mudhorn in the head where I would be sure to kill it. Then he passed out, like it took a great deal of strength out of him.”

Solveig eyes the small creature with curiosity. “That’s incredible.”

“It was. No way the Imps can have him.”

“Certainly not,” she says grimly. “They’ll turn him into a weapon or something evil. We have to hide him, but where? If hunters found us on Gaulus, they might be able to find us anywhere.”

“I’ve detected a small, unnamed planet in Wild Space. Atmosphere’s breathable, and as far as the database can tell, it’s uninhabited.”

“Wild Space, huh?” she says, tickling the bottom of the child’s feet.

“Somewhere no one can find us.”

Meanwhile, the child has clambered up on to Solveig’s lap and begins pulling at the buttons of her shirt. Laughing, she takes a moment to fasten them up before the kid pulls the opening too far down her chest.

“I suppose it’s a good time to get dressed.”

The Mandalorian nods resignedly to the fact that there is no chance to resume their previous activity.

“Could you bring my rucksack up here, please?” she asks.

“Sure,” he says, turning to leave. He takes one last look at Solveig and the child sitting on his cot and exits the room. Before hopping down the ladder to the hold, the Mandalorian stops by the cockpit to check their course toward the unnamed planet. Looking out the windows, he sighs and hopes that this next stop will give them somewhere to lay low for a while.

Downstairs, the Mandalorian hoists Solveig’s rucksack over his shoulders and tosses in some additional supplies. When he returns to his quarters, he finds Solveig and the kid in much the same position, except that the child is now face-down on her front, sucking eagerly on his hands.

“Guess what,” she says with a smirk.

Chuckling, he drops the rucksack at the foot of the bed and tosses her a bowl, spoon and a variety of food packets.

“You read his mind.”

“Those aren’t for him,” the Mandalorian says. “They’re for you.”

And before she can say anything, he unlatches the child from her tunic and hoists him over the shoulder like the rucksack he was previously carrying.

“You stay here, do whatever you need to. I’m gonna go eat and feed the womp rat downstairs.” He turns and leaves her sitting on his cot, wrapped up in his tunic and wearing an openly contented smile.

***

The rest of the day, in both their opinions, is far too busy.

While entering Wild Space, the Mandalorian had to spend a few hours manually navigating an asteroid field and finding their way back on course. Solveig, on the other hand, spent a good deal of time entertaining the child and keeping him out of trouble. Once, while cleaning up after second meal, the Mandalorian came up behind her and crowded her against the storage cabinets to steal a touch. But the kid seemed to know that he was no longer the centre of attention and dumped the remains of his stew over his head. Solveig spent a long while picking meat and vegetable pieces out of the child’s hair as he splashed in the fresher room sink. By the time they finished third meal, they were exhausted.

Finally, edging toward the night cycle, the kid passes out and Solveig takes him upstairs to place him in the pod in the cockpit. Looking down at her hands, she sees that they are still sticky with Jogan fruit and goes into the Mandalorian’s quarters to wash it off.

Shutting off the water and drying her hands, Solveig lets out a huge yawn and sees the dark circles running under her eyes. She decides then to grab the Mandalorian’s tunic as a sleep shirt and change into it behind the closed fresher room door. Peeling off her pants, she stands like she did last night with nothing but Din’s shirt landing at her upper mid-thigh. She thinks about this morning, and how its intimate tension strung along the hours, like a rope knotting them together and pulling tighter and tighter as the day wore on. She wonders, though, as tired as she is, if he will come upstairs and loosen the strain.

Opening the fresher door, Solveig is surprised to find the Mandalorian leaning against the doorway as if looking for permission to enter his own quarters.

“Need anything?” he says awkwardly.

Finally free of the day’s responsibilities, Solveig saunters up to him, sliding her arms around his shoulders and buries her face into the crook of his neck.

“Just you,” she says, pressing her mouth to the underside of his jaw covered in layers of fabric.

The Mandalorian’s breath hitches when he feels her body, her arms, her lips upon him. Slowly, he slips his gloved hands around her waist and leaves them there, gently stroking her ribcage with his thumbs.

The moment she feels his hands, solid through the thin fabric of the shirt, Solveig leans into him, not caring whether or not this is against the Echani rules and codes. And he doesn’t step away or hesitate. He answers by encircling his arms around her waist, pulling her close against his chest, and sets the edge of his helmet on top of her head.

For the first time in her life, Solveig feels both anchored and free. Grounded by his presence, she has no doubt in her mind that the time is now right and nothing needs to hold her back. It’s as though all the moving pieces of the galaxy that kept them apart for so many years has suddenly fit together, and they are now inextricably woven into the same path with the same future – whatever that may be.

They stay like this for a long time, making up for lost time without words while understanding each other perfectly.

Finally, Solveig straightens up so she can gaze more level into his visor, even though he's half a foot taller. The Mandalorian, however, is surprised that when she looks up at him, he sees her eyes are shining.

“Why are you crying?” he asks softly.

“I’m not really sure,” she whispers back.

Slightly worried, he wonders if she is happy or something else. He wraps his arms around her tighter.

Deep down, the Mandalorian has always wondered, always wanted to know. As much as he wants this to continue, he knows that he has hurt her in the past. He has to ask.

“Tell me,” he says hesitatingly. “Could you ever forgive me?”

She stares for a second when a faint look of disbelief spreads across her face. “I forgave you a long time ago."

The battle-hardened Mandalorian is floored by what Solveig Riis has just said. Her simple words leave him feeling both relieved by her admission of forgiveness and grieved over having spent so many years apart.

“I don’t know if I ever forgave myself for how I hurt you.”

Wiping the tears that had landed on her face, Solveig places her hands on his shoulders, running them slowly up his neck. “Then it’s time we let the past go.”

The Mandalorian, too full of emotion to speak, only nods. He withdraws his hands from her waist, and slowly begins to take off his gloves.

When they are bare, Solveig takes his hands and places them back onto her waist. Sliding up close to him again, she asks playfully, “If you can take off your gloves in front of me, what else can you take off?”

He lowers his head to her ear. “Just enough to get where we need to,” he rasps.

“Hm. Gloves and,” she pauses to move her hand lower, “the fly?”

“That, and no more.”

“They don’t’ make it easy for you, do they?” she says.

“No.”

“So utilitarian.”

“The rule encourages us to be . . .,” he searches for the word, “selective. Which makes it all the better when we have the opportunity.”

“You make it sound like a business transaction.”

“Easier to talk about it that way.”

Solveig laughs. “But nobody can see your face.”

“Still,” he answers with a growl, now running his hands down her hips and hitching the hem of her shirt up a little higher. “Mandalorians perform better in their armour.”

His bare hands are on the skin of her thighs now, dragging his fingers along the soft curves of her hips and across her buttocks. Solveig, pressed up close to him, plants soft kisses along his neck and collarbone even if they are still enshrouded beneath fabric.

Finally, he pulls her over to the cot and sits them both down upon it. She hitches up the shirt past the waist so she can straddle him with her knees. Supporting himself with one hand on the cot, the Mandalorian leans back and lets Solveig continue to nibble on his neck and grasping for him through his layers. At one point, he reaches to unzip his fly, but Solveig slaps his hand away.

“Not yet.”

The Mandalorian huffs, but allows her to stay pressed upon him as she works her mouth to the other side of his neck.

“You’re going to kill me,” he growls.

“And you’ll love me for it,” she rasps back.

Suddenly, she adjusts herself so that she hitches herself upon the obvious bulge in the front of his pants. Finding the perfect spot where she moulds into his hardness, she begins to surge upward, then back down with ridiculous slowness.

The Mandalorian swears again and clasps a hand under one of her buttocks, squeezing the firm flesh and pressing her even closer.

Then, reaching down with one of her hands, Solveig squeezes below his bulge and he takes in a sharp breath. Gritting back a groan, he arches back, sliding his hand further up to the small of her back as she pulses against him.

Then, as he is dazed with the throbbing and pressure mounting between his legs, it takes him a moment to realize that Solveig has unzipped his pants and plunged a hand inside to grab hold of his cock.

The Mandalorian’s heart nearly stops. His groan is so loud, that it makes Solveig grin even more. With his length encompassed in her soft, warm hand, she stays there tortuously, feeling him twitch for more.

“Kriff,” he growls. She says nothing as she bends down to suck on his neck again and begins to stroke him long and slow.

Her breathing, now ragged and desperate, begins to follow the same rhythm of her strokes. She feels the smooth, thick shaft of his length now beginning to wet with pre-cum and relishes the exquisite groans she extracts from him. From the moment his bare hands hitched up her thighs and grabbed her ass, Solveig had felt the growing arousal below begin to ignite as she ground herself upon his then-covered bulge.

Now with his shaft in her hand, she desperately wants him inside – but after enduring the restless tension caused by fifteen years of separation and days of close proximity – she doesn’t want to rush it. She wants it to last forever.

Finally, the Mandalorian speaks as if coming up for breath.

“Don’t you want me to take off the armour?” he asks raggedly.

“No,” she says firmly. Then looking him in the visor, she growls, “I want it on. _All_ of it.”

Stunned, he stares at her in surprise. “Never had that request before.”

Running a hand up and down the angular pieces of his chestplate, she replies, “It’s your battle-earned pride. I want it all over me.”

The Mandalorian grins beneath the helmet. Her words stokes the warrior within him – and it pleases him that Solveig wants to have him as he is: armoured, lethal, ready. He begins by sliding his hands under her shirt and smooths a palm between her breasts.

Sensing what he wants, Solveig picks up the hem of her shirt and tears it off, throwing it down on the floor. She straddles him now, completely naked against the fully armoured, fully concealed Mandalorian between her legs.

With a rumbling snarl, he picks her up beneath her thighs and gently sets her down on her back with him on top. When he looks into Solveig’s face, she is gazing at him with complete and utter longing. Reaching down, he zips his flightsuit all the way down to where the opening continues past his taint, and pulls out his hard, swollen cock, straining it against her centre.

Hooking her legs around his hips, Solveig feels the length and warmth of him pushing against the folds of her opening. Her mouth parts as he nudges his cock against her clit and its surrounding folds. She arches back, feeling his hand drag along her side as the other finds her breast and squeezes it hard.

Finally, the Mandalorian stops, as if looking to see if she is ready. Solveig responds by biting her lip and giving him the slightest nod. Then, he guides himself in.

Solveig gasps loudly and arches her back, pressing her hips against him as he buries himself deep.

“Din,” she breathes. He pauses, angling his visor at the sound of his name. All this time since their reunion, she has never said it, and hearing it on her lips as he enters her only adds fire to his arousal. Slowly, he withdraws his cock until just the tip stays inside.

“Say it again. My name,” he demands hoarsely.

She glares at him like a starving cat, irritated with the delay, but he holds his position. Softening, she says his name again, and he rewards her with a deep thrust, sinking all the way to the hilt. She gasps again, hissing as he withdraws and enters again.

“Solveig," he says, relishing the sound of her name on his tongue. He pushes himself in deeper. “You said you thought of me over the years. Is this what you meant?”

“Yes.”

“Would you touch yourself,” he rasps, “thinking of me?”

Bucking her hips toward him, she gazes at him sensually, running her hand up his chest, then raking back down to his abdomen. “Yes, Din. For years.”

Lowering himself down so his armour presses upon her breasts, his cuisses against her thighs, he brings his faceplate to the side of her neck as though to kiss it.

“Good,” he mumbles, “So did I.” He thrusts again, and he can now feel Solveig’s heart racing, her lungs breathless. Sliding her hands beneath his arms, she digs her fingers into his shoulder blade and drags one hand to grab the back of his helmet to hold him close. Then, she wraps her legs around him, pinning him deep.

“Fuck me slow,” she whispers into his earpiece.

There is little room for him to move, but he feels the entirety of her walls pulsing around him. Sealed tight against her smooth, lithe body, he begins to rock into her, dragging his cock out, then re-entering with agonizing slowness. In response, Solveig bucks her hips to guide him in deeper with each thrust, clutching onto his pauldron and pressing his helmet closer to her.

Panting hard now, they press their heads together as their passion builds – the air filled now with their gasps and moans and snarls. They are still moving deliberately slow, fighting off the urge to finish, like a large wave taking its time to crest higher and higher – that is, until Din finally breaks from the rhythm and begins to thrust quicker and piercingly. The sweet ache within is swelling to its breaking point as he continues plunging. Solveig tightens her legs around him with every thrust as the building pleasure nearly rents her in two.

Suddenly, heaving with breath with his forehead still against hers, Din asks, “Doesn’t it matter to you what I look like?”

Resolutely, between gasps, she responds, “No.”

“Why not?”

“You know the answer to that, nerf herder,” she says, with hunger in her eyes.

“I want to hear it.” He squeezes her breast and stops moving completely. Solveig snarls and sinks her fingernails into the fabric of his fligthsuit.

“Quit talking, Din, and get back to business,” she growls, grinding her hips toward him.

“No.” He pushes his weight down to keep her hips from lifting. “Say it.”

Solveig smiles wickedly, then hooks her arms around the back of his neck and drags him back down to her, mouth to earpiece.

“ _Because I love you, you hard-headed, metal-faced fucker_ ,” she growls.

He smiles under his helmet then, and with several long and deep thrusts, he compensates her well for her admission before stopping briefly again to whisper in her ear.

“Good.”

He begins to plunge even faster now, sliding the full length of his shaft nearly out, before plummeting back in, again and again. Solveig keeps her arms encircled around his neck as she matches his rhythm with her hips. The speed leaves them breathless, the two of them panting hoarsely, a joint, ravenous sound that arouses him further and emboldens his thrusts. Solveig clutches on, his head bent down into her shoulder. They rock against each other in bold, quick pulses, hearts pounding, chests heaving as all the emotions and yearning and loss of fifteen years seethes toward rupture.

Teetering on the edge, Solveig throws her head back against the cot and Din knows it’s time. Halting their frenetic pace, he slows to halt and exits nearly to his tip and pausing, brings a massive gasp from Solveig’s lips. She whimpers and moans for him to re-enter, and when he does, he penetrates so very slow, inch by kriffing inch, hard and throbbing deep within, that she spasms with loud, guttural cries as her climax racks her body and she has to clasp Din tight to her to keep herself grounded to the cot. Finally, her head rolls back and he begins to thrust again, sending her back into smaller, but consistent moans as he plunges through her orgasm. For him, it arrives soon, electrifying the base of his cock, then rupturing through the shaft and sending his cum spilling deep inside of her.

Solveig is still whimpering now, her eyelids heavy and breath labored. Sweat beads from her radiant face and they remain, still connected, but now still. He lifts his hand and brushes her long hair from her face.

“I love you too, Solveig,” he breathes.

Lying back against the cot, she smiles languidly. “I know.”

Din cups her cheek with his hand and drags it down her beautiful, glistening body. In places, he sees angular lines creasing her skin where his armour pressed against her. He smoothes them with his hand, as though he might erase them, but thinks instead that they are what she desired – that it is the mark of him on her body that she wanted.

Finally, he slides out and tucks himself back into his pants. Sitting up, he begins to peel off his armour, chuckling as he sees the smudges all over the metal. When he is finished, he lies down, extending his arm under Solveig’s shoulders, and she shuffles in closer, resting her head on his shoulder. Like they did the night before, they nestle together on the small cot, this time, fully warmed and exhausted, before quickly falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . phew. Okay. 
> 
> I've never written anything like that before. And I wasn't even sure I was going to write it with so much detail . . . but after 23 chapters IRL and 15 Star Wars years, it just felt right. Now go. Take a cold shower. ;p


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after: A little lore before lust  
> Definitely NSFW!

The next morning, Solveig rouses to find herself curled against Din’s back with her arm under his and her legs tucked up behind him. As she wakens even more, she becomes aware of his slow, quiet breathing as he sleeps with his head tipped down slightly. She stays here for a while, pressing her face against the back of his neck and enjoying his warm, earthy scent. Finally, her eyes focus on the tight weave of his flightsuit, following the fabric up his nape until it disappears under the edge of the helmet.

There is nothing that shows from beneath, and she wonders about the colour of his hair and how he manages to keep it short enough without having another person to cut it for him. She smiles, imagining a faceless Din in the fresher room with a pair of scissors making a mess out of his hair.

She also wonders if it’s against the rules to kriff with a Mandalorian while he’s sleeping.

With her chin against his upper back, she tilts her head up – and blows.

Din wakes with a start and swats his hand fast to the back of his neck. Lucky for Solveig, she has fast reflexes and rolls out of the way. She stifles a snort with no great success as he turns quickly and grabs her wrists. His visor is angled menacingly, but his grip is gentle, so she knows she’s not in too much trouble.

“I thought someone was trying to take off my helmet,” he says, voice gravelly from sleep.

“I didn’t think it’d wake you,” she laughs quietly, staring up into the dark glass.

Din shifts, moving his free hand beneath the covers to place it along her still-naked waist. The renewed touch of his bare hand on her skin sends a frisson of pleasure reminiscent of last night’s events throughout Solveig’s body. As she lies facing him, the blanket drops below her shoulder, revealing the bandage covering her wound. There is a trace of fresh blood seeping through the gauze, and he slips his hand from her waist to take a better look at it.

“A little tear from last night,” she says with a smile.

“The guy got you good,” he replies, still looking at the bandage.

Solveig sighs. “It was stupid to get ambushed like that,” she says. “Should’ve heard him coming or maybe found a better position –”

“Maybe you _are_ getting old,” he teases, fully aware that the last time he insinuated something about her age, she had him pinned up against the wall. But to his surprise, Solveig lowers her eyelids and hums.

“Maybe.”

He props himself up on his elbow to look at her. “I’m not being serious. You were incredible. You haven’t slowed one bit.”

“Well, it’s true. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

 _“Neither youth nor age defines your lethal potential,”_ he recites.

Solveig stares at him. Then she smacks him on the shoulder. And even though she knows he has a copy of the Echani rulebook in his drawer, she puts on an air of disbelief.

“Where did you learn that?”

“I read it,” he says, “in the _Echani Decalogue_.”

“Huh,” she says, keeping her face still. She purses her lips, then makes the decision to come clean. “The same one that’s in your drawer?”

Din angles his chin up with his eyebrows furrowed beneath the helmet, looking her over with his gaze.

“You went through my things?”

“Sorry," she says, looking at him slyly, “I couldn’t resist.”

At first, she isn’t sure if he is angry or complacent. Instead, he laughs. “Remind me to keep everything locked. Between you and the kid, I’m not sure who’s worse.”

“Hm,” she says mirthfully. “He can move things with his mind; I can pick locks. You’re kriffed.”

Din chuckles, and she presses on.

“So . . .,” she begins, “why do you have it?”

“I think you know why.”

“If it’s a kind of memento of me, you’ll know how short I fall from what’s inside.”

“That’s not a bad thing. It’s slightly terrifying.”

“But you read it? All of it?”

“Yeah.”

Solveig scoffs in disbelief. “What did you think of it?”

“It was interesting,” he says slowly. “Similar in a lot of ways to Mandalorian religion, but surprisingly poetic.”

Solveig snorts. “You sound like my drill instructor. She loved that thing.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. They made sure we memorized it all.”

“Do you remember it still?”

“Like it’s a part of my body I can’t cut off.”

He pauses for a moment, thinking. There has always been one principle that makes him think of Solveig whenever he reads it.

“There’s one section, ‘The Face of Eshan’ . . . ,” he trails off trying to remember when she fills it in for him.

“Part of the Second Principle. What about it?”

“Recite it for me.”

Solveig wrinkles her nose, a new expression on her that he finds very endearing. Keeping his observation to himself, he simply waits for her to comply.

“You ready?” she asks finally.

“What for?”

“It’s scary.”

He huffs. “Go on.”

Solveig keeps her gaze down as she traces small circles on his hand resting on the blanket between them, as though she has to dig into the recesses of her memory and drag it into the light. At long last, she looks up at him, a small fire glinting in her pupils as she begins in a quiet, serious tone:

 _Personal happiness and civic duty are one and the same,  
_ _For Eshan, Mother of Warriors, demands your full allegiance.  
_ _From Her, daughter, you inherit the Shield Maiden’s Veil –  
_ _At all times revealing nothing  
_ _Not like the soft ones of the Inner Rim, who smile and preen and beg._

 _But you, O Knife, O girl-child of our homeland proud,  
_ _Wear the face of Eshan, her sacred mask your gifts to hide  
_ _To join all sisters with intentions darkly opaque  
_ _At all times revealing nothing  
_ _So man will assume you weak and wanting, and weep blood at their mistake_.

When she finishes, Solveig adds for good measure, “From the Second Principle – The Rule of the Veil, section fourteen, ‘The Face of Eshan.’ ”

Din lies still in silence, digesting her words and amazed at how flawlessly she remembers the verses from that passage.

“Kriff,” he says with awe, “you _do_ know it.”

“Karked if I didn’t,” she says with a smile.

“It sounds daunting and beautiful,” he says, reaching to hold her chin gently with his finger, “Just like someone I know. But, there’s so much packed in this verse. What does it all mean?”

She purses her lips in thought, now following the lines of his collarbones through the flightsuit with her fingertip. “To put it simply, the Face of Eshan is the armour we wear, metaphorically speaking. You have your mask, I have mine. Under no circumstances are we to show our weaknesses or faults, to live without the influence of our emotions. In other words, it’s a fancy way of telling young, orphaned girls to shut down everything they feel so they can be more efficient in war. We wear the face of Eshan – our world and creator goddess – to prove our planetary superiority.”

“Like I said. Similar,” he says in reply. “Just as you wear the face of your goddess, we Mandalorians hold our armour and weaponry sacred. Being without them to an outsider is blasphemous.”

“Which is a good thing you kept it on all those years ago, when you were tempted to walk away from it all,” she says, reaching up and tapping the side of his helmet.

“Yes. The Way is about the collective, and my covert needed me.”

Solveig nods in understanding, then looks at him with curious eyes. “There are so few Mandalorians now. I learned about the Mandalorian Civil War and knew a little about their resistance against the Empire. But there’s nothing written about what happened to your kind after that.”

“Then you never heard about The Great Purge,” he says, grimly.

“No,” she says with slight alarm. “It sounds . . . bleak.”

“It was. I was there.”

Din watches as Solveig’s eyes grow wide, her lips parting in astonishment.

“A purge, you say? And you survived this?”

He nods, feeling the deep spring of emotion begin to well up in his chest. He hadn’t counted on telling her this. And he’s never spoken of his experience of it to anyone, only mentioning it by name in passing when necessary among survivors. Because hidden beneath the beskar, far below the surface and knowing Solveig’s stringent warrior past, he worries that perhaps she will not understand what he had to do that terrible day.

The doubt flares momentarily, but it is quickly dispelled when he remembers her great capacity for grace, seen now in the concern in her eyes and her hand resting on his chest in reassurance. And it is this that prompts him to share the details of this horrifying ordeal with her. He takes a long breath, and begins to relate the events of the Great Purge and what happened to him and his people.

“It happened almost a year after I left you on Alzoc III. I had gone back to my covert on Concordia, Mandalore’s moon, to help defend it from repeated Imperial attempts to claim it. Frequently, the Empire would harass us with a drop of shocktroopers and stealth bombers, but they couldn’t take hold of our city. Then, for months they stopped coming, and we thought the Imperials had given up. But we were wrong. They showed up one day with a legion of star destroyers, TIE fighters and ground troops, and that’s when we knew they hadn’t come before to conquer; they had come for recon. To see how many of us were there, how we would fight, what firepower we carried. Then they returned with what they needed to overpower us.”

Din pauses for a moment, taking in Solveig’s expression of anguished surprise. He runs his palm down her arm, taking her hand from its perch on his chest, and closes his hand over hers before he begins again.

“We fought back even though it was clear we would lose. We were outgunned and outmanned in the air and on the ground. But beyond the sheer numbers of the Imperials, it was like they knew we would never let ourselves retreat – and they used it to their advantage. At times, the starships would stop firing and just loom overhead, daring us to fight back. And it worked. Too many Mandalorians died that day because they were honour-bound to fight to the death.

But the Armourer of my tribe, a wise and battle-hardened woman, saw that the Imperials were goading us toward our own destruction. She saw that the need to preserve our kind was more important than dying honourably that day. Calling to me, and those who would listen, she ordered us to gather the foundlings and flee Concordia with our lives.”

He hesitates to continue, daring to glance at Solveig’s face, and is surprised when he sees her face cast in horror, eyes glistening with tears. The sight reassures him, and it’s enough to make him continue.

“None of us wanted to leave, but she was right. We fought our way to the academy where the children were hiding and got most of them out, but as I got the last one out of the building, a massive blast struck. I must have blacked out, because I woke a far distance from the academy entrance, hearing nothing but ringing.

There was smoke and dust everywhere, but even when that cleared, I couldn’t see straight: Everything looked fragmented. I thought it was me, but then I realized the blast had cracked my visor right down the centre – and that glass – there’s nothing I know out there that can break it.”

“Kriff, Din,” Solveig says. Slowly, she lifts her hand and traces a line down his visor. “The piece in your drawer.”

The Mandalorian angles his helmet at her. “You found that too?”

“Yes,” she says, biting her lip. “And a smashed up vambrace.”

“Also from the blast. Not to mention shrapnel in my left arm and a cracked rib.”

“What happened next?”

“I thanked the gods for my armour and crammed whoever I could into the _Crest_. It’s amazing we made it out alive; I could barely stand, but I got us through the Imperial fleet, and we made it. We skipped from sector to sector until we settled on Nevarro.”

“What about the other Mandalorians?”

“We didn’t know that while we were being attacked, the same thing was happening to all the other Mandalorian settlements. It took us days to learn that all of them had been nearly obliterated. Concord Dawn, Kalevala, Krownest, Ordo . . . all of them, gone.”

Solveig grits her teeth and growls with vehemence. “Those evil, blood-sucking Imps.”

“They decimated us. That’s why they call it The Great Purge. Only a few of us remained, and I’m told those who survived also went into hiding. Where, I don’t yet know.”

He stops then, lowering his head and touching his forehead to hers. She lets out a long exhale as she sinks into the gesture. They stay like this for a long time, letting the heaviness of his story weigh in the air around them.

“I’m so sorry,” Solveig says finally. “That wasn’t just an attack; it was genocide.”

He nods. “The devastation was immense. We’ve been trying to rebuild ever since.”

“Is this why you became a bounty hunter?”

“Yes. To help provide for the covert and the foundlings,” he replies quietly. His voice is rough and tight, as though he is holding back a torrent of emotions. “The Foundlings – they are our future.”

Rasping the last sentence, his voice breaks and Solveig hears his grief scrape through the helmet mic just enough for her to hear it.

Without a word, Solveig pulls him in close, bringing her arms beneath the blanket and sliding them around him. He, in return, does the same, sealing up any gaps left between them. His bare hand is on her low back now, skimming his fingers up and down her spine. She arches into his touch and presses in closer so she can place her lips along his neck as she did last night.

“I am sorry about your people,” she whispers. “You’ve lost so much.”

Dragging his fingers all the way to cup the back of her neck, he holds her to him. “I’ve never told anyone this before.”

“Are you glad you told me?”

“Yes,” he breathes, stroking the long column of her neck. “I’ve been carrying it with me for years. Some days, the thought of it makes me feel too full, like I’m drowning.”

His admission slips out, and it hangs in the air between them like a white flag indicating surrender. The moment he says it, he feels a tight knot of nervousness as though she has seen his face for the first time. But just as he begins to regret his words, Solveig shifts from their embrace to gaze into his visor fully, and when he looks into her eyes, he can see the compassion in them and they are too kind, too gentle for him to rescind what he has shared. Instead, he places his forehead against hers and holds her face with his hand, and they lie there together, face to visor, on his small cot soaking up the comfort of each other’s presence under their shared blanket.

“Being alone takes its toll,” she says finally, bringing her own hand to rest on the side of his helmet, “To have no one to help carry the weight.”

“And you don’t mind helping me carry it?” he murmurs.

She shakes her head slowly in his hands, and he feels her slide her knee up against his crotch. His heart beginning to thrum, Din looks down and all he can see again through the visor is her soft, pink lips, begging to be touched. Bringing the hand cupping her cheek around, he drags his thumb down to her bottom lip, pressing it down the centre line. Solveig, in response, opens her mouth a little and encloses the tip of his thumb between both lips. Din watches with anticipation as she bends her head forward and takes his entire thumb, sucking it all the way to the tip, before taking it all the way in again. The feeling of her hot, slick mouth on his thumb only makes him throb more, his length straining hard against the fly of his pants.

Looking up, Solveig smiles, hollowing out her cheeks as she squeezes his thumb on the way up, tasting the prick of salt on his skin and enjoying the bit she can run her tongue along. She continues this for several minutes, while simultaneously rubbing her knee against him – and her own centre along his thigh.

“I want you to know something, Din,” she says, pausing to look at him with her piercing brown eyes. “I want you to know that I’ve always been on your side. You never have to hold yourself back from telling me anything.”

He looks at her through the visor, feeling the warmth of her body against him, the sincerity of her words as she looks at him. In all of his years as a Mandalorian, neither being part of his covert nor his solitary life a bounty hunter has truly given him the release he has needed from the loss of his parents and the terror of what happened during The Great Purge. But being with the one person in the entire galaxy who has seen his fears, his grief and his mistakes – and still accepts him for who he is – changes something within him. It changes the way he once saw vulnerability as a weakness and sees, in Solveig’s hands, how it can be unsurpassed strength that even beskar cannot challenge. And the realization only makes him desire her even more.

Growling softly, he says, “No one has ever really known me, Solveig. Only you.”

“Only because you let me in.”

Din begins panting now, his breath coming out quick and hard through the helmet mic. It’s just the sound Solveig loves to hear: If she can’t see him receive his pleasure, then at least she can hear it. She gives his thumb one last suck and pulls away, throwing off their blanket to reveal her naked body lying next to him.

He stares for a moment, taking in the sight of her again and wishes he could place his mouth on her breasts, suck her nipples and leave a trail of kisses down to her tender opening. But he satisfies himself with what he can feel with his hands and what he can see with his eyes.

And he watches Solveig now, biting down on her lip before raking her fingers down his chest, down his abdomen and resting it upon the fly of his pants. Finding the pull, she begins to slide the zipper down, tooth by tooth, until she opens it fully.

Feeling the heat rising from his open fly, Solveig slides her hand in and finds him taut and ready. She encircles her hand around his thick, rigid shaft.

Din utters a long groan as he feels the warmth and pressure of her hand surround his cock. Slowly, she begins to pump her hand up and down the full length, careful to gather any pre-cum for lubrication. Din gasps as she strokes him so tantalizingly long and slow, and he answers her touch by sliding his hand up to knead her breast.

Solveig lets out a throaty hum at his touch and the greedy sound of his groans, feeling the familiar, growing throb radiating from her centre. Moving her knee to make room for her ministrations, she finds that rubbing her legs together further incites her arousal. In response, she strokes him harder, pausing at times to roll her thumb around his tip, and he inhales sharply, as though coming up for air.

Wanting more, he arches into her hand, thrusting his hips toward her – and when he is sufficiently wound up and unable to stand it anymore, Din growls and grabs her ass with one hand before gently flipping her onto her back. In doing so, he is already on top, clutching the back of both thighs and hooking them around his waist.

Solveig gasps as he lifts her hips off the cot and presses his deliciously engorged length upon her wet and warm opening, but he moves his cock to the side and slips his hand down to cup her mound. Solveig’s breath hitches as she feels him drag his fingers far back from her centre and forward toward her clit, then drawing slow circles around the sensitive nub. He repeats the motion over and over again before taking two fingers and diving them in. She spasms this time and bridges her hips up as he presses the heel of his palm around her clit and plunges his soaking fingers in.

Sucking in a breath, Solveig grabs the material of his flightsuit by the chest, nearly tearing the fabric with her grip. Chuckling at her fervour, Din removes his hand, dragging his fingers around her folds before removing his hand completely.

Now, framing his hands around her shoulders, he lowers down onto his elbows with one hand supporting the back of her head, and brings his length to slide against her opening. Coating himself with her wetness, he teases her again with just the head of his cock inside, before impaling himself deep within.

Solveig moans loudly as she feels him filling her completely, first a slight searing pain that is soon overcome with the deep ache of pleasure. Then, circling his other arm tightly under her waist, he embraces her tightly, his helmet squared with her face.

“I’m gonna fuck you hard, and I’m gonna fuck you fast,” he rasps.

Solveig grins at the prospect. “Then _pour_ yourself into me, Din. Let it go,” she replies huskily, wrapping her arms around him.

Growling, he pulls out and drives in with long, hard thrusts, ending each one with an extra push until she can feel his balls slap against her. With her hips lifted off the cot, legs around his waist and upper body wrapped in his arms, he continues to hammer into her one plunge after the other without slowing down.

Solveig breathes sharply, panting wildly, feeling him hit her g-spot every time and nearly rolls her eyes to the back of her head.

“Kriff, Din –,” she moans.

“Too much?” he asks, pausing.

She pulls him in closer. “No,” she hisses. “Don’t stop.”

Grinning beneath his helmet, he continues again, building up speed and ramming her until the cot begins to squeak and shake violently. Solveig is gasping for air now, drawing in long, laboured breaths with every stroke and feeling the coil deep within tighten more and more with every thrust. His arms, still wrapped tightly around her body, keeps her secured against the cot as he continues to plunge deeply.

Feeling her walls tighten around him, he stops, admiring the beautiful, naked woman beneath whose eyes burn for desire for him. For a moment, their eyes meet, and Din sees that she understands what it is to be alone and what it means for them to trust each other – their hearts, their minds, their bodies – entirely. With every moment their bodies surge together, the closer they come to that sweet, mutual release and Din holds off just long enough to see that Solveig is ready.

Twenty-five years of all that he’s ever felt and could never express beg him for release right here, right now.

He lets go.

The both of them roar with primal ferocity as they come together, Solveig clutching at the fabric of his flightsuit with uninhibited cries, and him, bucking his hips aggressively until the jolt of his climax leaves him shuddering on top of Solveig’s own spent and sweat-beaded body. When the growling and the moaning and the thrusting stop, they lay together on the bent and abused cot, breathing heavily, hearts pounding, bodies quaking. Finally, still in the same position as when they finished, Solveig lifts her head and kisses him on the visor where his mouth would be.

“Feel better?” she says, laying her head back down.

“Yes,” he replies between breaths.

Allowing himself to savour this last connection with Solveig, Din stays on top and buries his faceplate into her neck. They stay like this in silence, their hearts beating against each other’s chests. In return, Solveig massages the back of his neck and along his shoulders as they remain in their tight embrace for a while longer.

“We should’ve done this a long time ago,” she says, whispering into his earpiece.

Din sighs. “Kriff, we should have,” he says. Then adds with a chuckle, “We would’ve had little green babies of our own by now.”

Solveig laughs and pushes him playfully on the shoulder. Then with a smirk, she says, “So you admit it. You _are_ furry and green!”

And as if right on cue, the sound of the child echoes from the cockpit and interrupts their post-coital conversation. They look at each other as if to exchange glances with Solveig stifling a snort.

But Din has no time to respond before Solveig shoves him off of her and slides out from beneath him. Grabbing her discarded tunic from the floor, she throws it on and pads out the doors. Soon, he can hear her exclaiming with feigned surprise that the child is hungry, and he can tell by the sound of her movements clanging down the ladder rungs, that she has gone downstairs into the hold.

Swinging his legs from the cot, Din stands in the centre of his room feeling slightly dazed at the amount of intense, passionate sex that has transpired over the last twelve hours. After staring blankly at the walls of his quarters, he decides it’s high time he used the fresher and moves over to the sliding doors, pressing the lock button to ensure his privacy.

Throwing off his helmet and stripping out of his flightsuit, Din walks into the fresher without waiting to warm it up. The shock of cold feels good against all the sweat that accumulated after both sessions with Solveig, then feels the pleasant change of the water from brisk cold to soothing warmth. Never one for spending too long in the fresher, Din now allows himself a gratuitous moment to enjoy the spray of water, thinking about Solveig’s smile, their pleasant jibing, the musical ring of her laugh.

After turning off the water and drying off, Din rubs his hands along his face, and he remembers that the stubble along his jaw has grown itchy. So turning to the small mirror in the fresher, he reaches toward the cabinet that holds his razor but stops when he sees a curious mark cut through the haze of the shower mist.

Bending forward, Din peers at the blurry image of himself with a question mark running through the centre. He knows that only Solveig has been here before, so it must have been her who had drawn it. But what did she mean, by leaving it on his mirror?

In a flash, the answer comes to him and the message becomes clear.

_Who is behind the mask?_

Knowing his Solveig, it could be a joke, written for fun just to poke him about the Creed. Or maybe she _is_ asking what he looks like. But last night she said she didn’t care – and the way she responded to him during sex made it clear she wanted him, face or no face. Still, he ponders over her meaning beyond a question of his appearance, and if she is asking him a bigger, more significant question that involves their future together.

There is only one way, he thinks, that she can ever see his face without breaking the Creed, and he stares at the filmy blur of his reflection, slowly materializing from the mirror’s retreating haze, wondering if she will accept what the Way dictates, or if it means having to say goodbye all over again.

He stiffens his jaw in thought, then opens the mirror cabinet and reaches inside for his razor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure we'll learn more about The Great Purge in Season 2, but I thought I'd throw it in here as part of my pre-sex history lesson (ahem). Other than the steamy bits, I really had fun making up something from the Echani Decalogue (my creation, lol) and working in the idea that Din might have been present for the traumatic events of the purge.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solveig's gift

Solveig sits at the metal counter in the hold, oiling her vibroblades and cleaning the mud from her blasters and staff. The encounter with the bounty hunters on Gaulus seemed like a long time ago after all that had happened between her and Din – and she had nearly forgotten that her weapons were in serious need of cleaning. Her shoulder, now closed on both ends after another application of bacta, is free to move and she finds satisfaction in the rote rhythm of disassembling her weapons and tuning them up as she had been taught to do from her childhood.

She laughs scornfully at the thought.

What is it like to be a child? She pauses to look at the blaster parts in her hands, only remembering these instruments of destruction as her only toys. Her life on Eshan had taught her how to survive apart from compassion, mercy and kindness, but her own instincts had taught her how to live and how to love. How ironic, that it was love that drew her parents together and love that had driven her away from her people. And now, it is love leading her forward to a future that might finally allow her to be free to write her own rules.

Looking over at the child, who is chasing a metal ball around the floor of the hold, she smiles, and hopes that perhaps this little one, with his great and mysterious power, might escape his pursuers and live free from the domination of others.

Solveig jams the last piece of her blaster together, and at the same time, the gears in her mind suddenly click. She thinks of Din now and understands how much he has lost at the hands of tyranny. She understands his sorrow, his grief and his rage. In light of this, she understands even more so his need to protect the child. After experiencing the loss of everyone he has ever cared about – his mother, his father, his people – Din has a chance to redeem his past by giving the child a future that doesn’t turn out like his.

Setting down her blaster, Solveig looks over at her rucksack sitting open on the counter. A handle wrapped in supple, gold leather sticks out from her assortment of belongings. Pulling out the object, she weighs it in her hands, thinking about its significance and value before nodding to herself and sliding it under her belt.

Then, scooping the child and his metal ball from the floor, she places him on her hip and tickles his nose.

“Let’s go give your daddy a little present.”

* * *

When Solveig arrives in the cockpit, she finds Din occupied with the maps and charts displayed on the nav screen. She places the child into his pod on the co-pilot’s chair, gently telling him to stay, before leaning against the entryway, staring into the black vacuum of space.

“Planet’s turned out harder to find than I thought,” he says tersely without looking up.

“That’s the fun thing about Wild Space, isn’t it,” she replies lightly. “Everything’s a gamble out here.”

He tilts his helmet. “Yeah. Holonet has a list of Wild Space planets and territories but no map, no coordinates. I’ll have to do more manual piloting from here on out.”

Solveig tuts. “Too bad. I was enjoying all our time together.”

Din twists around in his seat, sitting back against the back of the chair. Looking her up and down, he huffs. “There’ll be time. I promise.”

Grinning playfully in reply, she angles her chin up. “I’ll hold you to that promise, Mando.” Then, uncrossing her arms and walking toward him, she nudges his knees apart and stands between his thighs.

He takes her hand then, giving it a gentle tug like he had done years before, to invite her on to his lap. But she resists, staying where she is and looking down on him with a smirk.

“You’re up to something,” he says.

“You know me well.”

“Once you start showing your emotions, doesn’t seem you can stop,” he teases. “What would Eshan think?”

Solveig thinks for a moment, tapping a finger to her chin. Then, in a ridiculous formal accent, she answers, “She would say, ‘By kriff! It’s time this girl wore her own face. I’d like mine back!’”

Din snorts and tugs her hand again, but still she resists. In response, he cocks his head questioningly, amused at her silliness but curious about what she’s up to.

He tries a different tactic, and this time, sneaks his gloved fingers under her shirt and holds her bare waist with his hand.

Solveig’s face grows serious now, somehow dissolving every ounce of mirth and playfulness from her expression, her eyes gleaming with intensity. She stands between his knees for a while, letting him caress her side, and he hopes she is not regretting their new-found intimacy.

Finally, she nods – mostly to herself – and reaches around her back. Din stiffens slightly, because any movement like this from Solveig often means an attack, as irrational as that seems now. To his relief, she turns to face him, this time with a leather-wrapped object in her hand. When he takes a closer look, he sees it is some kind of short sword with golden leather straps that had been twisted and crossed over many times to form diamond patterns down the handle.

He looks up at her, perplexed, as she remains still, only to slowly unsheathe the sword from its covering, also made from the same gold leather as the handle wrap. When the entire blade is bare, Solveig points it upward, examining it from handle to tip, then rests her gaze on him.

Din, still confounded about her actions, holds his breath and racks his brain for what he can remember from the _Echani Decalogue_ , but nothing comes to mind to help him interpret this situation.

Finally, Solveig lays the flat edge of the blade on her free hand and switches her handle grip to allow it to rest on the palm of that hand. Then, gazing at him intently, she gently brings the sword forward, presenting it to him.

Din says nothing, but glances at the finely crafted short sword before him. He sees that the handle is buttressed with an oval handguard in burnished bronze, which surges outward into a perfectly forged blade, long and thin, ending with the sharpened edge meeting the top edge at an angle. A tanto.

The metal of the blade, however, is intricately patterned, with dazzling wave-like patterns marled throughout, revealing itself as a rare specimen of extremely durable and keen-edged Onderonian steel.

“This sword is not just Onderonian,” Solveig begins. “It’s an Onderonian blade made out of _pure beskar_ , forge-welded together and folded multiple times to create the distinct watery patterns.”

Din looks up at her when she mentions the Mandalorian iron, feeling surprise and awe at the same time.

“Onderonian beskar – it’s unheard of,” he says. “Beskar is durable enough on its own without having to undergo the Onderon folding technique.”

“Durable yes, but not great for holding an edge,” she says. “An Echani requires both.”

Stunned by her revelation, he looks at the short sword again, marvelling at its craftsmanship and wondering about her possession of it. He knows, however, that even though the sword is made of beskar, it is not Mandalorian, nor has he ever seen her wield it. There is something strange yet special about this blade, and it makes him curious as to why she is showing it to him now. But, she moves the sword toward him again, urging him to take it. Slowly, he wraps his hand around the handle, and she steps back, giving him room to hold it.

“It’s incredible,” he says, turning away from her and the child to give the sword a few slashes through the air. “The balance, the lightness, even the grip – I’ve never seen or held anything like it.”

Solveig, looking satisfied as he wields her sword, finally speaks. “I want you to have it.”

Din turns to face her in surprise. “Why?”

“Because of what you said the other night, about The Purge, about everything you lost. It belongs to you, with the Mandalorians.”

Din is silent now, looking at the extraordinary sword then back up at Solveig. Shaking his head, he says quietly, “I can’t take this. It – it’s priceless.”

She nudges her chin forward. “Let it be a contribution to your rebuilding, for your foundlings.”

Din sighs long and deep. He isn’t quite sure what to say about this gift, but even so, he feels himself well up with gratitude and wonder at Solveig’s generosity and thoughtfulness. His mouth runs dry, unsure whether or not to accept.

Delaying his decision, he asks instead, “Where did you get this?”

She walks toward him and hands him the leather cover. Din sheathes the weapon and places it on the nav dash, looking at the detailed engravings that sprawl across the cover.

He takes her hand now, and she allows him to guide her on to his thigh. After settling comfortably on his lap, she places a hand on his chestplate and looks at him intently.

“It was my father’s,” she says solemnly.

Another surprising revelation. He has never once heard her speak about her parents, and at once he knows that this gift carries with it great weight. Din exhales heavily. Then, wrapping his arms around her waist, he edges his helmet close to her face. “You’re not going to say that he was a Mandalorian, are you?”

Solveig breaks her impassive demeanour with a laugh. “No. Not at all. He was a metalsmith from Corellia.”

“He _made_ this?” Din asks in disbelief. “That’s the finest work I’ve ever seen.”

“Apparently, he was pretty good,” she says facetiously, “I didn’t know him, but Alva did. She said he made weapons for mother, and at first, she fell in love with her blade, then with him.”

Din shakes his head with a laugh. “Sounds about right. Your mother – she wasn’t a typical Echani woman either then?”

“No. Alva told me she chose our father because she hated that men from Eshan served us as Escort Attendants. Their role was to listen and obey, to carry our weapons and care for them on the battlefield. Mother didn’t want a servant; she wanted an equal.”

“Kriff,” he says in mock dismay. “Is that what Echani men are meant for?”

“They aren’t regarded as good for much, unfortunately.”

Bringing his gaze to hers, he rasps, “You’d better not think that of me.”

Smiling, she replies, “You have your uses.”

He snorts, then flexes his hands against her waist.

“Any Mandalorian would be proud to have you by their side,” he says with a slight snarl.

“Ah, lucky you. Think your covert members would be jealous?”

“Of me? Always.”

She hits him on the pauldron. “You’re such an ass.”

“And you have such a nice one,” he parries.

“And if I could punch you in the face, I would.”

He cups her face with his hands then, stroking her neck with a chuckle. “The covert – they’d be afraid of you, that’s what.”

Solveig snorts. “Now that goes with what I was taught. The Echani don’t think much of Mandalorians.”

Din breaks away briefly to look at her. She is smiling archly at him, ready for another tease.

“And why not?”

Solveig touches her index finger and thumb together to flick at his pauldron. The sound she makes is a small _ting_ , like the sound of a bell.

“Echani don’t approve of armour.”

“They don’t care for protection?”

She grins now, flashing her teeth. Solveig bends forward and hisses into his earpiece, “ _Because we don’t need it_.” Pulling slightly back to bore her eyes into his visor, he stares back at this funny, strange and deadly woman sitting on his lap.

He flexes his fingers this time to dig them into her ribs. Solveig stifles a shriek and twitches away, nearly knocking her head on his helmet.

“Do you now?” he jibes.

In a flash, she grabs his wrists and pulls them down. Then, smiling, she smooths out his fingers so they lay flat and places his hands on her hips.

“Maybe we underestimated your kind for their prowess in _tickling,_ ” she teases back.

Din is laughing now, and he moves his hands from her hips to encircle his arms around her waist, pulling her closer to his body.

“We actually have a section in the _Decalogue_ about Mandalorians,” she says after a while, keeping her hand on his neck.

Din angles his helmet. “You do? I don’t remember reading it.”

“Because Mandalorians aren’t mentioned by name, just referred to.”

“I’m sure it’s flattering,” he scoffs.

“Oh, it’s just lovely,” she says with a smirk.

“Tell it to me.”

“With pleasure, Mandalorian,” she says sardonically. Sitting up right with a tall spine, she clears her throat and begins in the same ceremonious tone as when she recited The Face of Eshan:

 _Lift your hearts, O daughters, to thy guardians supreme:  
_ _Staff, knife, blaster, sword  
_ _No armour shall you need against the raging of our enemies  
_ _For mastery and skill are your protection, the work of your hands._

 _Only cowards don metal husks as skin not their own:  
_ _Helmets, pauldrons, plates of steel_  
 _A pathetic display of dominance – all show and no substance  
_ _For nothing are they but a limpet weak, a spineless, writhing worm._

_From The Sixth Principle – The Rule of Self-Reliance, section Twenty-Two: Flesh of Steel._

Din sits silently when she finishes, then lets out a long, exhale in amazement. “Sounds like it was written by an Echani scorned by a Mandalorian lover.”

Solveig huffs. “I never thought of it that way, but you’re right. It does.”

“So why the disdain against Mandalorians?”

“We were taught to eschew anything that we could do for ourselves. Armour is seen as wholly unnecessary, and my sergeant made it clear that Mandalorians were the worst perpetrators against the principle of self-reliance.

“Would your family have disapproved of me, then?”

Solveig’s playful smile fades as he says this, and she blinks a few times before answering. “I don’t know. I never knew my parents. They died in a transport crash when I was very young. But knowing my mother’s choice of an outsider, I think perhaps she would have been proud to know I learned to make my own choices.”

Din caresses the small of her back when she says this, then looking into her face, he says, “I’m sorry you never knew them, Solveig.”

She keeps her eyes down, her lips pressed into a thin line. “But they left me this. It’s the only thing of value I have,” she says, gesturing to the sword. “Don’t be sad for me. Just tell me you will accept it.”

It takes Din a moment to respond, feeling the significance of the gift and its meaning. “I don’t know what to say. This is all you have of your father. I can’t take this.”

“Yes you can,” she says. “It is mine to give, and I give it to you.”

Her eyes are glimmering now as she pierces his gaze through the glass of his visor. He knows that look, and he knows that she is dead serious in what she wants. Finally, he sighs.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, giving her a gentle squeeze. “It is very generous.”

It is the only word he can find to describe what she has done for him, as insufficient as it is, but he simply stares as the stars flit by, knowing that the true gift that he has been given today was not simply the blade, but Solveig herself. Not sure how to express this in words, he simply brushes her hair from her eyes and cups her face with a hand.

Solveig smiles at his acceptance, then tucks her head against his neck and caressing him across his collarbones. Gradually, her nuzzling turns into kissing, planting nibbles under his jaw and down his throat, nipping at his skin beneath the fabric of his flightsuit. At the same time, she scores her fingers down his ribs where his cuirass doesn’t reach, before sliding off his lap and lowering herself down to her knees.

Din’s breath hitches as her mouth lands on his thighs, gently biting through the flightsuit and moving closer to his groin. Suddenly, Solveig stops, purses her lips and looks back at the child’s pod.

“He asleep?” she asks.

Slightly out of breath, Din nods.

“Good,” she says with a smile, before taking a hold of the zipper and pulling it all the way down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Annnd, you'll have to use your imagination to fill in the ending of this chapter.
> 
> 2\. From the scant info I've learned about the Echani, it sounds like they really don't like Mandos. I thought making up a passage about them in the Decalogue would be fun(ny).
> 
> 3\. I wonder if you can guess which dumb TV show I've been watching a lot of lately that inspired the gift.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solveig and Din arrive on the unnamed planet in Wild Space.
> 
> Another chapter warning: This one is definitely NSFW! Enjoy!

“So this is it?” Solveig asks, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat with the kid on her lap.

Din nods while they stare at the small planet they hope will give them some respite from the pursuit of other bounty hunters. Positioned in the captain’s chair, he flicks the switches and pulls the levers to begin the ship’s descent into the planet’s atmosphere.

Solveig buckles up and holds the child firmly to her as she watches Din expertly command the ship. Leaning fully against her seat, she thinks about the last few days, after their first time, and how often they have indulged in each other since, usually in the morning and in the evenings when the child is asleep.

Staring at his back and admiring the wide expanse of his shoulders increased by his pauldrons, she remembers the time, many moons ago, how she came up to his cockpit to get away from Xi’an and the others, and he had growled at her to get out. How long ago that was, and how young they were, she muses. And now, she thinks how strange and wonderful it is that the man who had once given her his name in this very spot, is the same one who had himself buried deep within as she rode him seated in the pilot’s chair.

She takes a deep breath, trying to shake off the images of his hand on her throat as she held onto his shoulders and brought herself down onto his shaft again and again, her breath fogging up his visor. Just the memory of his body arching against the seat as he came made her feel the deep ache within her surge again. Shifting now, she sits up to quench the resurfacing desire by keeping her focus on the landing procedure, trying her best to find the planet’s emerging features more interesting than what was previously on her mind.

***

When the cargo hold opens and Solveig walks out of the shadows, she is blinded by too much sky and too much sun. All the time spent in the dark, artificial lighting of the Razor Crest has left her eyes unused to so much natural daylight, and she strains to see until her brain makes sense of a vast, rugged high desert plain covered in scrubby hills and towering mesas the color of sunset. At the same time, the air is fresh and brisk, much like autumn on Eshan, and when her vision becomes clearer, she can see flecks of red and brilliant gold dotting the landscape shining against the clear, blue sky.

While landing, Solveig watched Din scour the planet’s surface close to the ground, looking for a place to hide the ship. Finding a deep canyon, he descended carefully between its walls and followed the winding path when he finally found what he was looking for: a small oasis leading to a group of enormous, curved willows at the canyon’s end, situated against the backdrop of an immense wall of rock. There, Din lands the _Crest_ a short distance away, before carefully driving the ship over the ground and tucking it beneath the curtain of willow branches.

Now, standing clear from the trees with her hand over her eyes, Solveig scans the area. The canyon that surrounds them is tall and narrow, leaving plenty of places to hide from above and many choices to hold off an enemy down below. Besides the grove, there are no other trees and the earth is dusty with occasional outcroppings of xagebrush and twiggy, leafy shrubs. And when the sun heats up the surrounding rocks, she can smell the spicy, sweet herbaceous growth and feel the pleasant glow emanating from the dry, rocky ground. The nearby spring is a nice bonus, too, as the water reserves on the _Crest_ have been indicating low levels for a while now. All in all, it’s a good choice in its location and natural beauty, and Solveig is grateful that their hideout is nothing like some of the uglier, more destitute planets she’s been to.

Silently, Din approaches with the child in his arms. From beneath the thick curtain of willows, he emerges from the shadows, sunlight glinting off his armour.

“What do you think?” he asks, stopping next to her.

“Looks good,” she replies, her eyes still scanning the area for potential weak points. Din stoops to lower the child to the ground. The kid, however, doesn’t wait for his feet to touch the ground and hops out of his guardian’s hands to start his exploration of this exciting new place. Currently, small stones occupy the child’s attention as he sits himself on the ground, picking up handfuls of them and gleefully throwing them back down.

Solveig turns her attention to the Mandalorian standing next to her. He seems occupied with looking over the canyon as well, until she runs her hand up against his side, rousing his attention down to her.

“Happy?”

He hums, drawing her closer. “Like this? Always.”

“I meant with the place. Are you happy with it?” she asks.

“It’ll do.”

Looking down at the child who is still grabbing tiny fistfuls of pebbles, Solveig says, “Let’s hope we get some time to take a load off before anyone finds us.”

“ _If_ they find us,” he replies. “I’ve been monitoring the Crest’s residual flight path since we left Gaulus. Nothing’s popped up.”

“Good,” she sighs, before a shiver runs its way up her spine. Only wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and dark blue utility pants, Solveig feels the chill of the air keenly, which raises goosebumps all over her arms.

Noticing this, Din reaches around her shoulders and rubs a gloved hand up and down her bare arm. Solveig responds by trickling her hand down to his hip, but stops when she feels something tucked into the side of his belt. Looking down, she sees her father’s tanto hanging by his side, and she smiles at the sight of him carrying it.

“Looks good on you,” she says, admiringly.

“Not as good as the way you look on me,” he rasps. Solveig rolls her eyes and knocks his ribs with an elbow. He chuckles, tracing his hand up her spine before walking away to inspect more of the canyon.

Even now, after so many intimate moments together, Solveig feels the thrill of watching him stalk away in all that armour, his broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, and when the wind hits his cloak, well, she thinks – she could never tire of watching his assets in motion.

* * *

Just as Solveig predicted, their chosen area of the planet is in an autumnal cycle and darkens early, bringing with it a deeper chill and twinkling stars appearing against the luminescent twilight sky. Walking down the _Razor Crest_ ramp, she shrugs on the warmest garment she owns and joins Din just outside the grove of trees stoking a campfire while trying to keep the child from walking into it.

She joins them, kneeling to blow into the flames and they roar to life under her puff of air, dancing in the reflection of Din’s beskar armour. He looks up at her then and sees her in a thin, loose-fitting indigo sweater that falls off her shoulder and long sleeves that go past her hands. It gives the impression that it belongs to someone else, but the way it is worn, with a small hole unravelling near the collar tells him that she’s had it for years. It’s the most casual thing he’s ever seen her wear, and it contrasts sharply against the tight pull of her hair worn in a neat braid that rests over her shoulder.

The child babbles nonsense and continues to toddle over to the fire. Din holds the kid back with his index hooked into the back of the child’s tunic. Solveig chuckles and, stooping to pick him up, takes the child a good distance from the fire and sets him on the ground. Wondering what she will do next, Din takes a seat on the earth and leans back on a large rock.

Keeping the child’s attention, Solveig withdraws her staff from her belt and flicks it open. Telescopically, the rod extends to a length four times its size, the metal gleaming against the firelight. Slowly, she raises the staff with both hands and lifts a knee, then fluidly sets that foot down just before sliding gently into a crouched position, staff drawn back as if ready to strike. But, she keeps her movement drawn out and deliberate, as though she were fighting in slow motion. The child sits, mesmerized, watching Solveig perform her martial dance, moving her body like a wave pulling back and flowing forward in drawn-out sweeps and spins.

Din watches her focused, graceful movements as she wields her staff with expertise, thinking how she must have spent a lifetime practicing these movements. There is never a question or a pause to her flow, as if the dance is all that exist and her mind and body have been taken over with it.

Leaning back against the rock with his ankles crossed and hands folded, Din is hypnotized by her dance – the slow reeling of her staff and her loose sweater whirling in step with her body. For a moment, he imagines that the canyon is a sterile white background and in the fore, hundreds of figures like hers moving in complete unison. What must it have been like, he muses, for Solveig to have been raised to synchronise her individual will to the decrees of her homeworld? The background fades and darkens into the shadowy canyon beneath a carpet of stars. Only Solveig remains against the firelight, twisting and pivoting the steps of her people, totally and entirely alone.

And yet, she isn’t.

The child has shuffled over to her and tries to copy her movements by twirling himself around in circles. Several times, he stops, plants his hands on the ground, gets up and spins again. He repeats this dizzying pattern over and over again. Solveig sees all of this and halts her practice to watch his rendition of her Echani dance, covering her mouth against her own snorts. The child continues to spin round and round in circles until he falls on his bottom and flops onto his back all the while babbling incoherently and clearly delighted. Not able to restrain herself any further, Solveig lets her laughter shake loose, and she drops down over the child to blow raspberries all over his belly.

Unreserved baby cackles join Solveig’s loud, bubbly noises, while little green hands and feet flail in the air. Din watches all of this from his position reclined against the rock and chuckles at the sight of an Echani warrior pitched over in laughter as she makes a small, green child titter with glee. It’s a sight that he wants to remember – a memory to keep with him to replace the blanks in his mind under the category of Family and hoping both secretly and fervently that this is something he can keep, something the gods won’t take away.

The thought turns his mood sombre, and when Solveig finally sinks down next to him with the child, breathless from giggling, he slides his hand over her thigh and rests it there in silence. She looks at him, unable to read his face, but senses through his stillness and quiet that something is up. The child is wandering away now, following the path of hopping insects through patches of dry grass, so Solveig turns and places a hand on his chest with a look asking him if everything is alright.

He only dips his head in return, running his hand to her inner thigh, and Solveig knows by now that Din will speak when he’s ready and doesn’t push. Instead, she rests her head against his pauldron, snaking her bottom hand under the arm still resting on her thigh. They stay like this for a long while, listening to the crackle of the fire and watching small embers float into the air and disappear into the smoke.

Eventually, Solveig gets up to herd the child back toward them after scuttling too far away. She holds him in her arms, gently bouncing him as they watch the fire.

“It’s past this one’s bedtime,” she says, as the child begins to yawn. Din remains quiet, only looking up to give a curt nod, before gazing back at the fire. Solveig returns her gaze to the kid, whose eyelids begin to droop. At this sign, she heads back to the _Crest_ looming darkly under the pitch black shadows of the morose-looking trees to put the child in his pod.

Not long after, she reappears empty-handed, her hair loose from her customary side braid. She finds Din still at the fire, this time propping himself forward on his bent knees and stoking the fire with a stick. When she stops at his feet, she toes his boots to move aside. He complies, resting against the rock and makes space for her to step between his legs and sit down, finally leaning her back against his chest.

“Kid’s out?” he asks, gently tilting his helmet down to her ear.

“Yep,” she replies with her gaze resting on the flickering flames. Din hums happily and circles his arms around her waist. Their surroundings have now grown entirely dark and shadowy, save for the light of the fire flickering against the hovering rock walls of the canyon. By now, the fire is low and hot, the coals within glow black-red in the darkness, pulsing with heat and giving off an occasional, satisfying _crack!_

Sitting like this in comfortable silence, Solveig relishes the movement of his breathing against her back, the warmth of his body around her combined with the heat of the fire. It’s the first time in her life she has ever experienced a furlough like this, let alone have someone she cared about to spend it with. The Echani within her bristles slightly at the gratuitous time they have had, but Din’s firm, safe grip around her waist reminds her that she can and will enjoy this, because – kriff it all – she’d spent so many years serving others and so many years without him.

Finally, she looks down at his gloved hands and begins to sneak her fingers under the wristband of his glove.

“I love the feel of your skin, Din,” she says, breaking their long, pleasant quietude. “The ridges of your knuckles, the raised scar on the back of your hand, the bones beneath. And – ” she pauses, peeling his glove completely off, “the colour of your skin.”

“It’s not much, compared to how much you’ve given me, Solveig,” he replies quietly.

“Just some metal and a few smiles,” she retorts.

Din’s voice grows pensive and sullen. “So much more than that. You’ve given me what is precious to you. I can’t even give you my face.”

“I told you already, Din,” Solveig scolds lightly. “I won’t ask that of you.”

“But would you really be happy with only this?” he says, opening his bare hand to show his palm. He signs, and drops his hand. “I think you might grow tired of never seeing me.”

“I see you, Din,” she says, threading her fingers into his. She then turns to look up at him, her head resting on his shoulder. She stays like this in the quiet, patiently waiting to see if he wishes to say more.

Din is silent for a while, the wheels turning in his head. The love he feels for her is immense, and he knows she deserves everything that he can give her, but if he is truly honest with himself, past the beskar down to his very soul, he is afraid – absolutely terrified – of losing her.

At long last, he tilts his helmet down to look down at her face.

“Then what was the question you left me on my mirror?” he asks quietly.

Solveig’s mouth parts. Then, she supresses a grin. “A bit of a joke, oh Faceless One,” she jibes lightly.

“Still,” he says gravely, “I’ll always be a mystery to you – wouldn’t you want more?”

Solveig sighs, turning her gaze toward the fire and resting her head against his chest. She reaches her hand to run up the side of his neck. “I’m happy to have even the slightest ounce of you,” she says. Then she adds mischievously, “And glad that no one else has ever touched your lips since your swore the Creed.”

He scoffs, laying his head back against the rock to stare into the fire.

“Someone tried recently,” he says, after a moment.

“Oh, really?” she asks playfully. “Your last _conquest_?”

Din exhales with some irritation. “No – she – I . . .” he begins unsuccessfully.

“You don’t have to pretend you never had anyone else besides me, Din,” laughs Solveig. “It has been fifteen years, after all.”

“It’s not that,” he says quickly, “nothing happened between us.”

“Hard to say nothing happened if you say she tried to take your helmet off.”

Din continues after another terse sigh. “I didn’t hold it against her. She was a krill farmer from Sorgan. She didn’t know anything about the Creed.”

Pursuing her lips together and nodding thoughtfully, Solveig pursues the subject with spirited fervour. “A krill farmer, hm? I didn’t figure you for the agrarian type.”

“Neither did I. But the kid and I stayed in her village for a few weeks after helping them get rid of some Klatoonian raiders. It was . . . nice.”

“Nice as in, _she_ was nice?”

“Yes – and kind and attractive. I wanted to leave the kid there, but she wanted me to stay too – with her.”

Solveig tips her head up to look up at him. “Ah, the village beauty.”

Din squeezes his arms around her a little tighter. “You could say that. The few weeks I spent in the village was quiet. A pleasant change from my solitary life.” Then, shifting her to the side so he can tip his visor toward her face, he adds, “I’d been alone for a long time, Solveig – and the moment she tried to take off my helmet, I almost let her.”

Solveig tuts. “Why is it that women always want you take off the helmet?”

Din huffs at her statement, flexing his fingers into her ribs. “Don’t you want to know what happened?”

“Well, your helmet is still on, and you’re with me. So I suppose you said no and went on your merry way.”

“Yes, but you don’t know why I stopped her. I refused her because someone else had always occupied that place in my heart. She wasn’t the one.”

Solveig holds his gaze now, her eyes glistening in the dark.

Softly, he says, “ _She wasn’t you_.”

Solveig says nothing but continues to stare at him, her mouth slightly parted. Then, with a short, loud huff, she turns to face the fire. From this position, Din cannot see her face, but the rigidity of her body suggests that she is holding back her emotions, concealing them within as she has been wont to do.

“I never forgot you either,” she says finally, her voice tight and strained. Then, as though the seams of her self-control loosen in his embrace, the words start to fall out of her mouth. “I used to think of you all the time . . . but I was always short on credits for Alva’s care. When I thought you were the bounty hunter on Nevarro, I wanted to see you . . . but then by that time, I thought maybe you’d forgotten about me – or felt differently. I never got the chance to go looking for you.”

She breaks off, and Din pulls her back flush against him, running his bare hand along her collarbones.

“You don’t have to explain, Solveig,” he says. “Life threw us in very different directions.”

“I’ve missed you, Din,” she replies softly, almost in a whisper.

Taking her chin in his hand, he gently turns her head to look at him. Gazing intently into her eyes from beneath the visor, he intones slowly and solemnly, “And I have loved you every day since.”

Hearing his confession, Solveig is taken aback and her face, so often unbreakable like beskar, crumbles wretchedly, and she turns away, burying her face into her hands.

Sitting forward now, leaning over her bent form, he places the lip of his helmet against her shoulder, feeling her body shudder with soft sobs.

From beneath her hands, she whispers, “If I had known . . .”

But instead, Din shushes her gently, running his hands up and down her arms. “That time is gone. But we’re here now. _I’m_ here now.”

Slowly, she wipes the tears from her face and turns her head to look past her shoulder at him through a curtain of black hair, and he thinks to himself that he has never seen Solveig look as beautiful as she does when she shows him what’s inside, past the Echani mask, past all of her responsibilities and into her heart.

Wrapping his arm around her, he pulls her in to caress over her sweater at the top of her chest. The pattern is soothing and reassuring as he runs his bare hand up her neck, then back down. Then, inching his fingers beneath the collar of her sweater, he slides his hand over her heart and holds it there. The feel of his skin on hers still prickles her with electricity, knowing that his hands are one of the two ways he can perceive and enjoy her. Thinking about this tightens the coils deep within her centre, causing them to swell with that sweet, throbbing ache.

Biting her lip, Solveig turns her attention to his other hand and begins stripping it of its glove. Satisfied that both of his hands now bare, she places one hand on her breast and guides the other one down to the space between her legs. Deftly, Din unbuttons her pant fly and unzips it down as far as it will go with one hand. Then, sliding his fingers into the opening, he finds her mound and gently presses his fingers against her clit.

Solveig hums, arching against his chest as he gently pulses his fingers against the nub. It doesn’t take long for Din to find his rhythm, simultaneously kneading her breast with one hand, while stroking her with the other – nor does it take long for Solveig to feel his hardness meet her low back pressing eagerly in his pants.

Feeling the greedy hot glow between her legs, Solveig knows exactly what she wants. Breaking briefly from his sensuous hold, she sits forward and ditches her sweater and the thin shirt beneath. Then she goes for the pants. Already unzipped, they slide off easily, and she kicks them out of the way. Naked now, with the flickering firelight dancing upon her smooth skin, she turns to face him and begins to unzip his pants all the way down. But much to Din’s dismay, he finds that her only mission here is to free his length from his pants before turning her back to him again. Quickly, she brings her feet to the inside of his thighs in a butterfly position and slightly hoists herself up to press her back against his chest. Carefully, slowly and agonizingly, she impales herself deliciously upon his hardened shaft.

Immediately, he gasps as his cock disappears into her slit, and Solveig hisses with the sensation of his tip prodding her g-spot. She stops here, reaching down and cups his balls and he gasps again, his helmet nearly clanging against the rock behind. Suddenly, he clutches her breast again and brings his free hand down her belly, down her pubic mound and back to her clit, gently drawing circles around the nub and eliciting sharp gasps from Solveig’s lips. In this grip, he has her tight against him, and all Solveig can feel is so much of him holding and touching and penetrating deep within.

Finally, when the waiting is too much, she slides herself up and plunges down again, engulfing his entire length with one swift push. She continues this way, pushing herself up and freeing his cock to the tip before absorbing the full shaft to the hilt. Hissing, Din squeezes her breast harder and begins rubbing his slickened fingers down her folds, creating a V with his index and third finger to run them down both sides. At this, Solveig begins to moan, hitching herself up and thrusting back down upon him with increased vigour. Din pants now, his breath loud and desperate, sounding staticky and sometimes cutting out, as though his helmet mic can’t keep up.

Their joint gasps and moans begin to grow louder as if in response to each other, growing bolder now that they have made love so many times before. Loud bursts of groans and sharp, forceful breaths mingle in the air, with Solveig riding the Mandalorian with her back against him as he clutches on to her body.

Finally, Din shifts his legs so that his boots plant on the ground. He uses the rock behind him to push his hips up, allowing Solveig to recline more easily on his front. Pleased with this new angle, he heightens his pace, and Solveig whimpers at this new intensity.

Raggedly, she says between breaths, “I want your hand on my throat, Din, like the other night.”

Willingly, he obeys, sliding his hand off her breast and up to cup her throat. Tilting his head forward to her ear, he rasps, “Like this?”

“Yes,” she breathes, “Show me what a Mandalorian is capable of.”

He chuckles then, stroking the column of her neck with his hand. Then, like this, he drives his hips up again while pushing the heel of his other palm against her g-spot to anchor her body down. Faster and harder he thrusts upward as Solveig joins his pace, retreating from his base and grinding back down. The more he drives himself into her, the more her breasts jump and jolt, and the sight is nearly enough to make him come.

“Could an Echani man ever subdue you like this?” he rasps into her ear.

Solveig keens at his fierce rhythm and the force of his hold. “No,” she gasps. “Never.”

“But a Mandalorian, yes?”

He clutches at her throat, not grasping hard, but holding her firmly. The throbbing, climbing bloom of arousal continues to grow, and Solveig can only nod her head.

Growling into her ear now, “Say it. Say you surrender.”

For a moment, she says nothing, only closing her eyes and moaning against his thrusts. Din grips her throat a little more, hissing between his teeth. “ _Surrender, Echani_.”

Deeply immersed in the haze of arousal, Solveig strains against him, “Yes, Mandalorian,” she whispers, “I surrender.”

“Good,” he rasps back, “because you are _mine_ , Solveig. _All mine_.”

At this, Din clutches on, both her throat and with fingers rubbing either side of her folds, thrusting and thrusting her from below, until her spine arches back and her breasts point to the sky. As he continues piercing upward into her centre, he listens carefully for her moans to intensify. Building quickly to her climax, she clutches her hands over his – the ones still on her throat and down below – and lets him set the cadence of their bodies pulsing toward that magnetic thrum deep within until she careens to the edge – and surrenders.

Her climax is long and explosive, causing her body to jerk and spasm against him, and she feels as though she is drowning wonderfully in tidal waves crashing overhead. Gasping for air, she clings onto his hands on her body, feeling the safety of them and of his embrace throughout her peak. Seconds later, Din comes and stifles a loud cry. In doing so, he clangs his helmet against the rock as he indulges in his sweet release. For a while, they rock gently together as the waves gradually subside. The both off them, now spent and satisfied, lie still against each other, listening to the sounds of their breathing slowing to calm.

“Didn’t I say you looked good on me?” Din says finally.

Still feeling him deep inside of her, Solveig smiles. “You wear me well, Din Djarin,” she says, slightly breathless.

By now, the night air has cooled significantly and the beads of sweat on Solveig’s skin leave miles of goosebumps in their wake. Feeling this acutely, she releases herself from her perch and goes to retrieve her sweater. Din, from his vantage point, is happy that she has decided to forego putting back on her pants. Instead, she pads around barefoot, bare-legged wearing nothing but her oversized sweater to throw more wood onto the fire. When she finishes, she stands close to the flames to warm herself up, then looks up at him with her face aglow in the firelight.

Tucked away and fully concealed now, Din gets up to join her standing by the fire. Solveig welcomes him with a smile and throws her arms over his pauldrons while standing on her tip-toes. And because being close to her is becoming as natural as breathing, he encompasses her with his arms wrapping around her waist. Solveig hums and begins to sway, both of them now gently rocking together to the slow, steady thrum of their hearts, and they stay like this for a long time, casting long, wavering shadows against the high canyon walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this story is getting steamier than I thought it would go. But then, when you make up characters and they end up having such a history and so much unresolved sexual tension, well . . . seems appropriate. 
> 
> And yes, Baby Yoda does go to sleep at very convenient times. ;p


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surrender.

For the first few days on the unnamed planet, Solveig and Din take the child on short jaunts around the canyon. Not far from where they are stationed, there is one traversable path leading up that is well in view of the Crest. At the top, they scan the scrubby hills around them and see nothing but desert plain all around. When they are satisfied with the absence of other life in their area, they spend their days near their grove, making small repairs to the ship and tending to the child. At night, they enjoy quiet evenings by the campfire, often (if not always) leading to passionate sessions, and ending with satisfying sleep inside the Crest. Other than when the child is asleep and the two of them are enjoying each other, the three of them are often together. Occasionally, however, there are times when Din slips away to do things he needs without his helmet. 

On this particular day, another bright and peerless desert morning, Solveig hooks up the ship’s water-refilling hose to the _Crest_ and drags it out to the pool of water just beyond the grove of trees. She spends the entire morning focused on this task, adjusting the pump, monitoring the water levels, testing out the water pressure, and getting the ship’s water filter going. Then, when the Crest is drunk with water, she dismantles the entire set up, finally taking care to roll up the hose and stow it back in its spot inside.

It is nearing mid-day, and the sun is high, revealing itself to be the hottest of all the days since they landed. Walking to the edge of the pool, Solveig wipes the sweat off her brow and kneels down, looking at her watery reflection stare back at her. She cups her hands and splashes the cool, clear water on her face and uses the bottom of her shirt to dry her face. Not a very seemly thing for an Echani to be doing out in the open, but she throws off the thought, again pleased that she is free to do what she wants.

Looking into the shining pool, she sees the lovely blues, greens and greys of the pebbles at the bottom and marvels at the crystal-clear quality of the water, something she rarely gets to appreciate on her travels with small-minded space pirates and mercenaries.

When she stands, she surveys the peaceful canyon they have resided in for the past few days. There have been no signs of bounty hunters or Imperials, and each day, she begins to feel as though she has stepped into someone else's story, like the children's tales Alva used to tell her about orphaned boys and girls who would be adopted by noble families and live happily ever after. Taking in a deep breath of the sweet, herbaceous air, Solveig lets out a long sigh with a wide smile spread across her face. Then, looking down into the glass-like water, she sees something.

A quavering reflection behind her. The air squeezes from her throat.

Already she has been yanked away from the water, the assailant’s arm hooked under her neck and dragging her back. Quickly, Solveig reaches up to grab her attacker's arm but stops when she recognizes the vambrace and the grey flightsuit upon the arm around her neck. The realization makes her pause, and she stops moving. At the same time, so does _he_.

“What are you doing?” she asks flatly, without seeming affronted by his attack.

“Keeping your skills sharp,” he rasps, keeping his hold.

Solveig smirks. “Oh. Is that what this is?”

“Can’t be caught like we’re on vacation.”

“Speak for yourself,” she retorts, just before elbowing him in the gut and escaping his hold. Din chuckles as he steps away, assuming a fighting stance.

Solveig straightens up and looks at him incredulously with damp water and sweat spots dappled over her white short-sleeved shirt. The look on her face is devilish but keen, and she scrapes at the dirt beneath her boots like a bull readying to charge. In truth, despite all of their intimate revelries and quiet moments on this planet, Solveig had been missing the unique kind of satisfaction that only combat can give. Her preoccupation this morning with refilling the Crest was one way to soothe her inner demand for focused, physical labour.

“Checking the edge on this Knife of Eshan,” he taunts. “See if she’s gotten _soft_.”

Solveig scoffs. “We Echani are never dull.” She staggers her stance and extends her arms out in readiness. “Come, Mandalorian.”

Din angles his helmet dangerously, approaching her with no apparent fear or apprehension. Solveig weaves her steps toward him, careful to keep her distance. Swiftly, without warning, Din reels back and hits her with a front kick, his heel knocking the air out of her lungs. Recovering quickly, Solveig smiles and rushes toward him with a series of fast punches, which he blocks with his vambraces. As she approaches, Din backs up to create space between them – and once he finds an opening, he turns and delivers a hard punch to her ribs. The blow sends her back a moment with a gasp, which gives him time to grab her throat.

This only keeps them close, and Solveig slams her forearm down on his arm, breaking his hold. Freed, she grasps onto his pauldron to slam him forward into her knee, below the bottom of his chestplate where she knows he is unguarded. He stifles a grunt as he pitches forward, but rounds upon her with a powerful uppercut to the jaw.

Solveig’s head snaps back for a second and she staggers backward to give herself some distance to recover. Rubbing her face, she shakes off the stun and looks at him pensively. The certainty of his movements reveal a motivation driven by passion – not rage or anger or anything she had previously read from their duel years ago – but a kind of hungry, driven ardour.

“You seem to be enjoying this, Din,” she says slyly. “I hope you haven’t been bored with me.”

Din cocks his head. “With you? Never.”

It is Solveig’s turn to close in first. Din keeps her back with a few defensive punches, but she gets him with right hook, then a left, but he quickly retaliates with strong punch to the gut. She sinks forward into him with a grunt, and he pauses for a moment, giving her time to catch her breath.

His head bent low to her ear, he growls, “You surrender?”

Solveig lifts her head slightly to catch his shielded gaze. Her eyes sparkle mischievously in acknowledgement of the same demand he made during a previous night’s lovemaking.

“In battle? Never.”

Din maintains his firm grip on her shoulders as he rasps, “You will to me.”

“Dream on, Mando,” she hisses.

“Then fight me. Harder,” he goads. Pushing her off, he steps back, giving her distance.

“You’re gonna be begging for ice after this,” she volleys. Taking a a step forward, she brings her arm bent in front of her face as though getting ready to do a dance. Then, before Din can react, she has completed enough flips to close the distance, landing a ferocious spinning jump-kick to the side of his head.

The beskar helmet clangs loudly from inside. Solveig lands and completes her spin with another sweeping kick to his ribs. But she isn’t finished yet. Upon completing her last kick, she plants her arm to the ground and rams her foot to the underside of his jaw.

Din can barely see straight with the ringing in his ears, and he barely realizes his body has landed hard against the earth with a loud thud. His body and his jaw aching, he lets his head drop back against the rocky earth with a clank.

After a moment of breathing heavily and blinking beneath the visor, Din sees Solveig’s impassive mask staring down from above him. She is standing, with her hands on her hips, looking him over with a warrior’s steely-eyed gaze.

“Had enough, Din?” she asks, toeing his boot.

He sighs heavily, taking a deep breath and readying himself for more. Then, without warning, he hoists himself into a reverse table position with hands and feet planted on the ground. He delivers a quick ground kick toward her face, which she avoids and steps away in defence. Din, however, is already up on his feet and advancing, while Solveig raises her eyebrows as if impressed.

“So the game’s still on,” she says, ducking one of his blows and retaliating with her own.

“This is no game,” he growls, blocking her punch and holding her fist in his hand.

Solveig slams her forearm down on his to release herself.

“Then what is it?” she asks, punching him again in the ribs.

He grunts, before grasping her wrist and holding her still. “An Echani challenge.”

Breathing heavily now, Solveig looks into his visor, her eyes narrowed.

“What kind of challenge?” she asks, between gritted teeth.

“I think you know which,” he says.

Solveig growls and rips her arms from his grip, sending him back with a hard front kick. Suddenly, her face grows hot and her eyes begin to glisten. Clenching her jaw, she stuffs her emotions back inside, schooling her face back into her Echani mask.

But before she can say anything else, Din rounds upon her quickly with a blinding combination of head hooks, kicks and jabs. Blocking him while stepping back, the thoughts and emotions surfacing from his movements reveal the shadowy form of his hands holding a familiar book – and the soundless words from his thoughts echo in her mind:

 _And if he survives and does not run in fear  
_ _If he surrenders and you accept . . ._

Gasping at the impression appearing in her mind, Solveig huffs quietly before stepping back with enough room to hit him back under the jaw.

A tear falls.

She hits him again.

Another tear falls.

Din manages to catch hold of both wrists and locks them down while leaning forward. With her face close to his visor, she clenches her jaw, holding back the flood of emotion threatening to spill over.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she whispers hoarsely.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” he answers.

Yanking her hands down, he kicks her hard, sending her flying to the ground on her back. When he descends to grasp her collar, Solveig snaps her legs up around his neck, hooking one foot under her other leg, squeezing his neck below the helmet, and commanding him into submission. Kneeling, with his head bent down and constrained against her hold, he struggles with his hands, pushing against her legs and trying to grasp for anything to hold. But this, the triangle choke hold – the move that won her many challenges in the past, when she was a girl who had to win or face corporal punishment, when she was a young woman fighting for her life and Alva’s – she knew that once she got Din into it, there would be no getting out.

After grunting and shifting in attempt to free himself, Din finally taps her leg. She doesn’t budge. Straining beneath her hold, he croaks out, “I surrender!” He taps her leg harder now until finally she releases him, and he sags down against her, running his hand over his throat.

Eventually, he drops onto her chest and wraps his arms around her waist. With his visor so close, Solveig can see her blurred reflection in the glass and the mist of her breath creating an opaque mist.

Breathing hard and holding her tight, Din says firmly and steadily. “Solveig. Do you accept my surrender?”

She says nothing but bites down on her lip as tears begin to stream down her face in rivulets. She looks away, covering her eyes with her forearm. Holding her still, Din waits. But she stays silent, continuing to cover her eyes in futility as unrestrained tears continue to run down her face. 

Quietly now, he says, “Look at me, Solveig. You know what this is.”

Slowly, he takes her arm from her face and makes her look at him. She stares at him through strained, swollen eyes with her lips pursed into a thin line. Then, pressing her hand to his heart, he begins to recite lines that he has somehow memorized. Words that come from her homeworld. Words she never thought would apply to her:

 _Daughter of Eshan, no man shall be your equal  
_ _But if you shall take one for your Escort,  
_ _Let him challenge you out of pity  
_ _For a man willing to do so may be called brave  
_ _To endure your might, the power of your hands.  
_ _And if he survives and does not run in fear  
_ _If he surrenders and you accept,  
_ _Make him yours, your servant, your husband,  
_ _To relish your strength, your gifts, your deadly beauty._

He ends his recitation. There is a heavy silence between them, and Din begins to wonder if he was a fool to offer himself to her – if she could never envision a future with him – and if he will lose her altogether.

Finally, she speaks. “You’re asking me to join your clan.”

“In Mandalorian terms, yes.”

Again, Solveig says nothing for a long while. She remains motionless, pinned beneath his weight and searching his eyes somewhere behind the visor.

Then, shifting so she can free an arm, she traces two fingers down the vertical line of the dark glass that has become, to her, his face.

“What about this?” she says softly. “Is this to stay on even if I join your clan?”

Lifting himself slightly so he can get a good look at her, he runs a palm from her throat to her chest. A small smile spreads across her face as he continues his gentle touch. Softening now under his hold, Solveig draws a circle with her index where his mouth would be.

“It would be so nice to kiss you, don't you think?” she continues.

Nodding slowly, he hums, “That would be nice. You have such beautiful lips.”

“There's other places you could kiss, too, Din,” she replies, looking up at him slyly.

But he encircles his arms even tighter around her waist and growls in her ear, “Then don't make me wait for an answer, woman.”

“I’m still waiting for you to answer another very important question.”

“About the helmet.”

“Yes, what else?”

“Would it be deal breaker?” he asks.

She hits him on the chest. Laughing, Din grabs her hands and leans forward, his visor almost touching her nose.

“The answer is _yes_ ,” he says. “I can show my face to anyone in my clan. But first,” he says angling his visor at her, “you have to join it.”

Solveig’s playful expression melts again as she returns to the subject at hand. Watching her turn his proposal over her mind, Din moves himself off of her and sits up with his arms propped on his knees as he waits. Shortly after, she follows suit and begins playing with bits of grass while looking down at the ground.

“What if I’m no good at this kind of thing?” she says finally.

“Do you think _I am_? I’m a foundling, remember? – and a kriffing Mandalorian. We don’t exactly excel in openness.”

“But you’ve always had other Mandalorians to be your family. I don’t know how any of this works. How could I be a good partner for you?”

He stands now, pulling her up with him at the same time and holding her close.

“You’re the _only_ partner for me.”

She stares back, pressing her face back into a mask to hide the flurry of emotions clamouring for air.

“Don’t do that,” he says gently, cupping her face with his hand. “I want _all_ of you.”

To his surprise, she throws her arms over his neck and pulls him tight into an embrace, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. She stays there for a long time listening to his breathing and feeling his arms wrapped tightly around her waist. Then, lifting her lips just to graze his earpiece, she says, “And you’ll give me all of _you_?”

“Yes. Everything.”

She lifts her head then, and stares at him squarely through the visor with the same serious, inscrutable look on her face as the one she gave him the very first time they met. The same, steely-eyed gaze.

“Fine,” she says flatly, arms still hooked around his shoulders.

“Fine what?” he presses.

“Fine, I accept. I’ll join your clan.”

“You don’t seem happy about it.”

“I am,” she says, her gaze lowered to his chest. “I – I’m just trying to keep my kriff together.”

Chucking her chin with his hand, he lifts her face for her eyes to meet his visor. “You don’t have to hold it together with me, Solveig.”

Taking a deep, shaky breath in, Solveig exhales and lets her body soften. Her face, flooding with warmth and tenderness and love for him begins to brighten into a joyous, natural smile.

Cupping his gloved hands fully around her face, Din leans in to touch his forehead to hers. “You don’t need to hide anymore,” he breathes. “I _see_ you.”

Leaning into his Keldabe kiss, Solveig rests her hands along his neck and begins a recitation of her own:

 _Beloved,  
_ _The Face of Eshan, I remove for you  
_ _My own face shall I wear as one becomes two_  
 _For those who wish us harm shall learn and weep  
_ _None shall dare threaten us and the life we keep._

Gently breaking away to look into her face, Din tilts his helmet. “I don’t remember this from the _Decalogue_.”

“That’s because it’s not from the _Decalogue_ ,” she replies. “It’s the Echani marriage vow.”

“Your armour for mine,” he says, running his finger down her lips.

Her eyes shining brightly, Solveig grins coyly. “Your turn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . this is coming down to the wire, folks. I'm trying to wrap up this story before the fun of real life starts for me in September. If you couldn't tell (from me posting every few days since freakin' July) I like finishing things, lol. There are two more chapters left until I'm calling it done (for now).


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Din's turn for some official Mandalorian business.
> 
> Also, this chapter. Phew. Keep a fire extinguisher handy. NSFW!

Solveig stands in the centre of Din’s quarters with her arms crossed and looking slightly anxious. Luckily, the child had eaten a large portion for second meal and ended up passing out for the afternoon. He was still fast asleep when Din brought Solveig to his room and locked the door behind them.

“So,” she begins, “how do we do this?”

“You’ve already given me your vow. I give you mine and then it’s done.”

“No ceremony or witnesses required?”

“No.”

“And this . . . this is the Way?”

“This is the Way,” he repeats.

Solveig chuckles. “At least it’s efficient.”

“Like most Mandalorians,” he says.

Rocking slightly, Solveig wraps her arms around herself a little tighter to keep her nervousness at bay. Noticing this, Din runs his gloved hands up and down her arms to reassure her. Beneath the helmet, he is somewhat amused that this Echani warrior has never shown an ounce of the jitters in any other situation than this.

Finally, he fishes around the cowl of his cloak and pulls out a metal pendant attached on a string. Quickly, he yanks it off with a snap and presents it to her. Immediately, Solveig recognizes the shape of the Mythosaur skull. From her rigorous schooling, she remembers the famed beast from Mandalore’s history, and she wonders at its significance worn as a pendant around his neck. As if answering her unspoken question, Din speaks.

“This pendant binds you under the protection of all the Mandalorians who still remain.”

He takes her hand now and wraps both of their hands with the Mythosaur necklace. Bound together by the string and pendant, Din places his forehead against hers in a Keldabe kiss.

“Under the protection of Mandalore, I give you my wealth of weapons and my beskar, every piece. To you and you only, I give my face which has been sealed behind steel since swearing the Creed. You are the key that unlocks my soul, and you, my beloved, shall own my possessions, my flesh, my soul.

He pauses then, his breath slightly ragged while Solveig listening intently. He continues:

“This vow binds you to me, and me to you. Within the forge of my heart I melt my armour. I share with you my inmost being and re-temper that steel under the power of two.”

Then, breaking off the Keldabe kiss, Din keeps his gaze on Solveig and she, in turns, looks up.

“This is the way,” he says.

With understanding, Solveig answers back, “This is the way.”

They stand like this, staring at each other in the centre of his quarters, with the dim light above flickering and no one else present but themselves. Solveig blinks, unsure if there is more or if the deed is done.

“Is that it?” she asks quietly.

“That’s it,” he confirms, hiding the nervousness now creeping into his bones, knowing that now – as officially sworn and avowed partners – everything will change. Now, he can give her everything.

Solveig bites her bottom lip now, looking uncharacteristically shy as she leans into him and traces a finger up his neck just to the edge of his helmet.

For Din, his heart is pounding with the anticipation, and he thinks back to his swearing of the Creed when he was thirteen years old – just a boy and not nearly old enough to truly understand what it all meant – and then never showing his face to anyone ever again. His heart pounded then as it does now, and he is suddenly nervous like the boy he once was, except now instead of losing his face, he is gaining it all back again for the one he loves.

And then, of course, there is the thought that has been haunting him for a long time. What if she doesn’t like what she sees? What if she can’t stand the sight of him? There is no way he knows, after years of living behind the helmet, if he has a face that she could love – and the thought terrifies him more than the prospect of fighting a barrage of stormtroopers on his own.

But, when he gazes down at Solveig and considers her steady, compassionate heart and finally, her willingness to avow herself to him sight unseen, he has to believe that she will love him still, no matter what.

He flexes his hands and stows away his fears. For now, there is something he must do first. Taking a step back from Solveig’s hands, Din unholsters his blaster and holds it out to her. She looks at the antique pistol in his hands, noting that it is the same one she once admired the first time they had spoken – the first time he had revealed the things he carried.

“This is the blaster given to me by my _Buir_. I give it to you, now a member of my clan, my wife.”

Solveig’s lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I have your father’s blade; you have my father’s gun. Don’t say you won’t take it.”

Humbly and solemnly, she takes it from him and cradles the blaster in her hands. It is a momentous gift, she knows, and looks at him with tenderness as she presses the blaster against her heart. Then, placing it carefully on the table next to his cot, she returns to him and places her hands on his chestplate.

“I don’t have anything else to give you,” she says quietly.

Din runs his thumb around her cheek and back over the rosy rims of her mouth.

“Your lips,” he rasps. “I want your lips.”

His hands move now to brace the sides of his helmet, the only face Solveig has ever known and the only face he has ever shown to the world –

And in a moment, it is gone.

Solveig is frozen in awe the moment her eyes focus on his face. His heavy eyebrows furrow above warm brown eyes that could smile on their own, with noticeable crow’s feet splaying out from the corners. His nose, probably broken from a previous fight, is slightly crooked and prominent, setting off an angular jaw full of stubble. Most notably, perhaps, is his head of messy brown hair that sweeps across his forehead and licks up in slight curls in various places. In all her years of thinking about him and the time they’ve spent together, she never could imagine what he looked like beneath the helmet. Even so, she always knew that she would love him no matter his appearance – and she is stunned now to see just how well his face fits the idea of him, how warm and kind, and – to her amusement – how handsome.

“Solveig,” he says, a shy grin creeping up his face.

She starts a little at the sound of his voice, not accustomed to hearing it without the filter of the helmet mic, but hears the same gentleness, now only fuller and richer with a faint rough scrape around the edges. Wholly captivated with the newness of him in this state, Solveig cannot break from looking at his lips saying her name, seeing them so plush, so kissable – so human.

“You’d better not be thinking how ugly your husband is,” he says lightly.

At this, Solveig breaks from her trance and laughs. In turn, Din’s smile erupts to its full bloom, spreading mirth up his cheeks and into the crow’s feet around his eyes.

“You’d better not be fishing for compliments,” she replies.

This time, she _sees_ Din roll his eyes, and she smiles impishly. “If you really want to know,” she continues. “Then you’re not _half bad_ , Din Djarin.”

Suddenly, his smile falters, and he looks away with his eyes averted to the ground. And in that moment Solveig realizes he is embarrassed – and that she really shouldn’t have joked about his face at this sensitive moment. He hasn’t revealed himself to any living being for most of his life, and here she is telling him that she doesn’t quite find him attractive. Quickly wanting to take back her words, she tilts her head to meet his gaze.

Entreatingly, with the softest expression she can give him, she says, “I’m being an idiot, Din. Please don’t think I’m serious. Can I tell you the truth?”

He arches an eyebrow and looks at her incredulously like he’s about to hear something worse.

“I love the way you look.”

He maintains the same expression. “You’re not just saying that.”

“No.”

And before Din can reply, she grasps his cowl and pulls him down to meet her lips.

Surprised with the sudden proximity of her face against his, he stiffens. It doesn’t take long, however, for him to soften as he feels Solveig part his lips with her own, closing them over his top lip for a gentle suck. Groaning softly, Din finds that her bottom lip fits perfectly into his mouth and begins to tug delicately while running his fingers through her hair. Solveig, in turn, responds by drawing her hands to his shoulders and sliding one hand up around his jaw, feeling the stubble against her skin.

They continue like this for a while, alternating turns sucking and nibbling on each other’s lips. Growing hungrier with each kiss, Solveig now opens her mouth more fully, before drawing it down on his tongue and lower lip to pull back into another tender suck. Din, having no experience using his mouth for pleasure, copies her motions, opening his mouth and letting their tongues meet, and closing again into a kiss.

For Din, the feeling is incredible – and dizzying. All of his senses are on overload to be so close with his face pressed against hers, tasting her velvet lips on his, feeling the hot slickness of her tongue, and her smell – gods, he never thought she would smell this good. Her skin, smooth like nut butter, somehow smells honeyed, spicy and earthy all at the same time, giving it the scent akin to a loamy forest after the rain.

At times, he feels the need to break off and collect himself. The confinement of the armour he had lived in for so many years had sealed him off from receiving and experiencing so much of these sensations, and the onslaught of her marvellous scent, taste and soft, warm skin – even her appearance and voice are now clearer than being seen or heard from beneath the helmet.

It is all so much – too much – but he can’t stop; he doesn’t want to. And to add to all of this sensation, he can’t help but feel his length begin to harden and throb against his pants. They continue to kiss, but this time, Solveig draws her tongue along his to tangle slowly around each other before ending in another sensuous suck. Din moans at the luscious, languorous kiss and regretfully breaks off to catch his breath.

“I’m not going to last long if we keep this up,” Din rasps.

Solveig only silences him with another kiss, softly taking his tongue into her mouth over and over again.

Finally, when he can stand it no longer, Din encompasses both hands down her neck then trails one hand down her arm until he laces his fingers with hers.

Stepping back, Din pulls her toward him as he sits down on the cot. Solveig follows to stand between his knees, already beginning to strip him of his armour, starting with his pauldrons. Quickly, they unfasten the straps and latches that secure the plates to him. In no time, Din is free of his beskar and remains only in his flightsuit.

Solveig tuts. “Still so much to come off.”

Din smirks. First, he kicks off his boots and peels off his gloves. Then, he unravels his cloak to reveal the high neck of his flightsuit that underpins his jaw. Here, Solveig climbs onto his lap with her knees on either side of his legs and gives him a little kiss while locating the flightsuit zipper tucked neatly under his chin. Slowly, she pulls it down, exposing more of his neck, and she takes a moment to bring her lips to suck against the firm lines and muscles of his throat. Straddling his legs, she can already feel the bulge of his pants rise to meet her opening, and she shifts, making sure to find the perfect connection between them both.

He swallows then, and she watches his Adam’s apple bob so she nibbles a trail down the V-like muscles of his neck down to the notch just above his collarbones all the while Din grips the base of her skull with his hands.

“Kriff, Solveig,” he mutters, tilting his head back to allow her more access. “Never thought it’d feel this good.”

She smiles then into his skin, taking in the full scent and heat of his skin steaming out of his partially open flightsuit. As she continues kissing and sucking gently on his neck, she unzips his flightsuit a little more to reveal a new vertical sliver of his tan, golden skin between the zipper. Sliding her hand into the opening, she runs a palm across his chest, feeling the hard lines of his pectorals over to the ridges of his ribs. Din gasps to feel her hands on him so fully, where no other living being has ever touched before. The sensation at first seems too much and nearly blinds him with its intensity. But gradually, as she brings her other hand to join the first, he acclimatizes into the feeling of both palms running up and down his front.

Eventually, Solveig sits up and pulls the zipper down just below his navel, revealing a line of fuzz leading down beneath. Then, as she straightens up, she kisses him back up, making sure to suck on the hard horizontal lines of his collarbones until she reaches his mouth again. As she does so, she gently pushes her tongue inside his mouth, and he gives it a little suck, moaning as she dives in a little deeper each time.

They stay like this for another while, tasting and nipping and sucking, until Din feels her part the bi-sected flightsuit over both shoulders. He does what he can while kissing her to work the rest of it off his arms.

Once he is freed and his entire torso is bare, Solveig runs her hands down his arms, squeezing the taut muscles of his shoulders and down the firmness of his biceps and forearms. For a moment, she pauses as she thumbs a series of mottled bumps and lines on his arm.

“Shrapnel wounds?” she inquires, looking down to inspect them. Some are white and healed nicely while others are knotted mounds of reddish purple.

He nods with a hint of sadness in his eyes and says nothing but only nudges his face against hers for another kiss. She feels his nose press against her face as his lips search for hers, and she slides her hands up around his shoulders to squeeze him closer.

Then, she gives him one more deep kiss before breaking off and muttering another tsk, looking down at her clothed self and his naked top.

“Still so much to come off,” he echoes back, running his hands along her sides. Solveig sighs and sits back, unbuttoning the top of her t-shirt and quickly throwing it off. Looking down at them both where the crucial areas are still covered, she retreats from his lap to kick off her pants and finally stands there completely naked before him.

Din shakes his head while wearing a grin. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this,” he says, looking her up and down with intensity in his eyes.

Solveig bites her lip in a smile. Then, returning to him but kneeling down between his knees, she says, “I can only imagine.”

Slowly, tooth by tooth, she finds the zipper pull and drags it down all the way. Already, she can feel the moist heat of him rise from the opening, and she slowly encircles her hand around his already rigid length. Giving him a few long strokes, she gently pulls him out from root to tip.

Din’s breath hitches as he watches Solveig lick her lips so close to his cock. Then, just as he hopes, she gives his shaft a long, wet lick, from the base to the top and does it again and again.

Finally, she pauses and sucks just the tip, running little circles with her tongue before taking the entire shaft into her mouth.

Din groans loudly now, screwing his eyes shut and leaning back against the cot with his hands. Meanwhile, Solveig, enjoying the sounds of his pleasure, dives in repeatedly with a hum that reverberates down his shaft. Feeling his cock twitch in response in her mouth, she feels the excitement well up between her legs, the familiar heat and urgent pull that makes her wet down below.

With one last plunge, Solveig draws her lips back slowly all the way up until she releases him with a slight pop. Then, looking at him lustfully, she grabs the top portion of the flightsuit gathered around his hips and pulls. Din gets the message and hikes up his hips, allowing her to yank the flightsuit all the way off.

Solveig throws it onto the floor and turns back to look at Din now sitting on the cot, entirely visible in his own skin. Still on her knees, Solveig breaks into a whole hearted, uninhibited smile and stands up, this time, to climb back onto his lap with her knees straddling his thighs.

For Din, this full-on bodily contact nearly overwhelms him, so he wraps his arms around her soft, warm body to bury his face into her neck. He keeps his hold on her for several minutes, simply letting his mind and body calm so he won’t explode against any further contact. He tries, with difficult success, to keep from coming at the simple feel of her breasts, her arms, her thighs – her everything – pressed up against his skin. Taking in a few long breaths, he focuses on the lovely smell of her skin and the grounding warmth of her body until he is no longer so volatile.

Solveig, sensing the challenges he is facing, murmurs into his ear, “Hold on for me, Din. Breathe.”

“I’m trying,” he murmurs back.

Pulling slightly back to look at him in the eyes, she gives him a wry smirk. “Then think about how awful this is. It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

Din laughs, and Solveig delights in the sound of it ringing natural and clear without the helmet.

“So terrible,” he quips back through his teeth. “You’re disgusting.”

She guffaws, slapping him on the chest. “So are you, old man.”

“Hag.”

“Geezer.”

“My old lady,” he says with a clenched jaw, now gripping her arms with both hands. “Finally.”

She grins back, leaning forward until their sides of their noses touch, she says, “Finally.”

Then, without warning, she lifts herself up and slide herself down upon his shaft.

Din sucks in a sharp breath, and releasing one of his hands from the cot, he slides it up and down her chest until closing over a breast, pleasuring in giving her several firm squeezes.

“Mmm,” Solveig moans loudly while squeezing him from deep within. “So good to have _all_ of you.”

“Just as it is good,” he replies, “to have you all over me.”

Sitting with her head over his, she tips his face up and thrusts her tongue into his mouth. He answers by sucking on her lips before sliding his tongue in to tangle with hers. Solveig gasps at the taste of his mouth and the slick heat of his tongue. In response to all the wet, passionate tasting above, Solveig begins to lift up onto her knees to move against his cock.

Groaning into her mouth, Din wraps his arms around her waist, bracing her movements. Solveig continues kissing him while riding him steadily, feeling his hardness hitting her deep and winding up the coils growing tighter with every thrust.

Eventually, Din needs to come up for air. Breathing heavily now, he breaks off from Solveig’s beautiful lips and stares into her dark, glistening eyes. The warrior in her is here – bold, brazen and fierce – and he marvels at the fact that she is now _his_ – wholly and completely – as one of his clan.

Removing a hand from her waist, Din runs his thumb along her lips and she kisses it, still looking intently at him.

“I love you,” he says hoarsely.

“You don’t need to say it,” she replies. “I know.”

“But I want you to know, Solveig,” he says with his voice slightly breaking. “I will always love you. Forever. Fifteen years apart, and I could never stop loving you.”

She stares at him now, her face thoughtful. Then, she encircles his shoulders with her arms. “Then it’s a good thing I accepted you . . .”

“Hopefully not as your escort,” he snorts, finishing her sentence.

“ . . . as my equal,” she says, staring him down.

Din smiles heartily and tilts his head back before planting soft, delicious kisses down her throat. Solveig moans at the sweet sensation of his lips, his nose pressing against her neck. She loves especially feeling hot slickness of his tongue flickering down to her collarbones. Finally, bracing her shoulders with his hands, he pushes her back slightly, so he can lean forward and taste her breasts. Solveig gasps as he nips a little at the roundness of them, just before he opens his jaw and takes a nipple into his mouth.

He teases the hard nub with his tongue, alternatingly sucking and licking it until Solveig nearly comes undone. She threads her fingers through his hair, messing it up even more, and gently pulls at his brown curls. He continues torturing her for several minutes more, before bracing her hips to push her down onto his cock.

With her fingers still clutching at his hair, she gently yanks his head up to look at her. Taking his mouth into hers again, she begins to draw herself up upon her knees to thrust down upon him. Slowly, she lifts up nearly to his tip, before bringing herself back down at an agonizing pace. Din slides his arms around her waist to fully encompass her body against him, his face buried deep within her breasts. He continues sucking on their plump tops as she continues to ride him, and soon, the electric haze of passion – from years of being separated and now finally officially bound together – begins to spark madly into an unrepressed blaze.

Solveig cannot stop now, hitching herself up and back down upon him in a steady, heated pace, while Din moans loudly into her breast, squeezing her against him with his arms, mouth agape and snarling like a hungry predator.

Then, because he has become intoxicated and greedy with the smell and the feel of her, he lifts her up from beneath her thighs and flips her onto the bed. Taking himself out of her centre, he shifts down until his head is between her thighs and takes a mouthful of her clit.

Solveig gasps and arches her back as he sucks, using his lips to pull and tug at the bundle of nerves. He nibbles on the nub for a while, tasting her salty-sweet wetness – something he has always wanted but could never do because of the Creed. Then, he shifts lower and slides his tongue into her opening, pressing his nose against her folds as he searches deeper.

But for Solveig, his oral ministrations drive her so close to the edge that she sits up on her elbows and gently motions for him to come up. Looking up at her from below, he grins and climbs back toward her. Now, supporting himself on his hands on either side of her shoulders, he looks down at her beautiful naked form and cannot wait to feel the entire length of his body press down against hers.

On cue, Solveig wraps her arms around his shoulders, and holding his gaze with the ferocity of an equally fearsome animal, she hooks her legs securely around his waist. Quickly, Din lines himself up and drives his entire length deep inside. And while Solveig arches up, her mouth parts, and he cannot resist coming down on to his elbows to bring his lips to hers again, using his tongue to thrust her mouth open and devouring everything he can.

Solveig, feeling nothing but the sensation of being stuffed full of him – from her mouth to her centre – allows him to keep filling her up until there is no space left inside of her. He rams into her, both with his cock and his tongue, as Solveig clutches the back of head to keep him close. Now fast and hard, their hearts and breaths thrum at the same pace as their hips, climbing quickly with each thrust toward that exquisite, excruciating release.

The tightening coils snap.

Together, they cry out. Solveig screams, spasming into her climax as the surge jolt her over and over and over again, while Din muffles his roars into her neck as he bucks into her centre, feeling her walls pulsing all around him. Over and over again the momentum of their release crashes over them in blinding, tortuous and overwhelming waves. As the intensity subsides and their gasps turn to sighs and slower movements replace their pulsing hips, Solveig turns his face toward her. His eyes are glazed, mouth parted with heavy breaths. Smiling contentedly, she kisses his forehead and kisses his nose until she reaches his lips. Eventually, they lie still against each other, both coated in beads of sweat, with hearts beating together.

Din gazes into Solveig’s face, now wearing a smile of exhausted satisfaction. Bringing up his hand, he smooths it along her hair by the temple. Solveig does the same, lifting her hand and running her fingers through his scruffy brown curls.

“You survived,” she says languidly, resting her head against the cot.

“Barely,” he replies with a sweet grin. “It was a miracle I lasted till the end.”

Solveig hums, admiring his smile and all the new features of his face. Tracing a line from his temple to his jaw, she runs her thumb along his lips almost in disbelief at their presence.

“Husband,” she says quietly.

Din’s face lights up as she says the word. “My beloved. My wife,” he whispers back.

Then, Solveig lifts her head and takes his mouth into hers, giving him a long, tender, soft kiss. He breaks off reluctantly and gazes into her eyes.

“Careful,” he says, “you start that, and I’ll have to take you again.”

“Hm,” she says thoughtfully, “Be my guest.”

She kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my dear readers, whoever and however many of you are out there: Don't worry, there is ONE more chapter left.
> 
> But all the leaves are brown (not yet) and the skies are grey (sometimes), but it already frickin' feels like September, and I've gotta leave all this Solveig + Din dreaming behind. Sob!


	30. EPILOGUE (for now)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end . . . sort of, maybe . . . we'll see.

_Months later . . ._

Just outside of Hutt space on a planet called Vohai, Solveig Riis has her boot against the back of a Skrilling male. He pants laboriously, wheezing out of his multiple breathing tubes and holding his stubby three-fingered hands over his wrinkled blue head. Pulling out a small, black and silver rectangular object from her pocket, Solveig looks down to see its red light blinking madly in the darkness.

“P-p-please,” he blubbers, “It’s all a mistake.”

“Tracking fob doesn’t lie,” she says flatly, before yanking his thick arms behind him and cuffing them together. Then, hoisting his heavy body to his feet, she points a blaster into his back and rasps, “Move.”

In the darkness of the alleyway, the Skrilling tries to make a run for it, but Solveig is too fast. She grabs his largest finger – the thickness of a tree branch – and yanks it backward.

He cries out in pain, apologizing profusely until she lets go. Soon, the Skrilling begins to shuffle his elephantine legs, kicking up dust in his wake. In this bustling Outer Rim planet city centre, there are so many beings around that no one takes notice of a black-clad Echani woman and coarse-skinned Skrilling joining the crowd on the main street.

Finally, Solveig pushes the Skrilling through a door that opens into a dimly lit shipyard, where there are no other spacecraft stationed there except for one small, dilapidated gunship parked in the shadows. Herding the Skrilling toward it, she finally stops him to activate a remote. Softly whirring, the cargo doors begin to descend, touching down and extending out into a loading ramp. Solveig’s target stares at the black mouth of the ship, then turns his gaze to her. Through a blowhole on the top of his head, he begins to whoosh air in a panicked, hyperventilating sort of way.

“Get in,” she commands, thrusting her blaster into his back.

“I-I-I didn’t do it. The c-c-c-crime I’m accused of,” he pleads. ‘I’m i-i-i-innocent!”

“Don’t care,” she replies, before shoving him hard in the back.

The Skrilling stumbles forward onto the ramp and when he doesn’t move, she fires her blaster near his feet, sending sparks flying against the metal. Her target whoops and whimpers through his blowhole and reluctantly makes his way into the hold. Sensing their presence, the interior hums softly to gradually turn on the lights.

Suddenly, the Skrilling turns to take a swipe at her. Solveig ducks quickly and backs away.

More menacingly now, her target snarls, “I ain’t goin’ back, even if that cantina owner got what he deserved!”

Lowering his head, he charges. But he is slow, and Solveig dodges easily, sending the Skrilling headfirst into the cargo hold’s steel wall. Solveig doesn’t have to do anything else to subdue him. Next, she grasps the collar of his tunic and drags him semi-conscious and moaning over to a rectangular recess beside the weapon’s locker and throws him in. Frigid air erupts from the cavity and when the air clears, the Skrilling is frozen with a dumbfounded look on his face in solid carbonite.

Letting out a breath, Solveig holsters her blaster and stands looking at her frozen asset who marks the first slab in her new collection. Only a few days ago, she had returned to Nevarro to cash in three bounties. It was then that she met Greef Karga for the first time. He had been overly warm and ingratiating upon their introduction, asking about his “friend,” Mando and heaping praise over her capture of bond skippers and petty thieves. Perhaps, she thought, he sensed that there was more to her professional partnership with the Mandalorian – and even Cara Dune seemed to hint at their relationship by the wink she had given when she told Solveig to “kick Mando out of bed.”

None of this mattered to her then, just as it doesn’t matter to her now.

_Kriff what others think. And kriff the Empire._

When Din told her about Karga’s offer to sort things out in Nevarro while they were hiding in Wild Space, Solveig agreed without hesitation. What she didn’t count on was for him to ask her to stay behind on the _Crest_ while he, Cara Dune and Kuil took the child to meet with the Client. She just about killed him then.

He had expected her to be angry.

Taking her to the privacy of the cockpit, Din had begged her to understand. He had even locked the cockpit hatch and taken off his helmet with the others downstairs. The look on his face was devastating. He said he had lost everyone he had ever loved – his parents, his friends and comrades – and he couldn’t bear it if he lost her too. It was a hard pill to swallow, because the Echani in her knew she was more than capable of handling herself and a small voice inside told her it was because the Mandalorian underestimated her.

But Din’s words faltered and Solveig made herself listen. He needed time, he said, to come to terms with loving her so much and his fear of losing her. And this mission was too dangerous to walk into without him worrying about her safety. They could hunt for bounties together later, but just this once, he begged – just this once he wanted her to stay back.

And because Solveig had seen and heard and felt the vast loss he had suffered throughout his life, she conceded.

Now in the hold of the _Crest_ , Solveig closes the cargo hold ramp and seals herself inside. She sighs and strips her hands of her tactical gloves. Opening the medical cabinet, she fishes around for a bottle of pain relieving drugs and wonders if Din is awake. From the silence she hears, probably not. He’s been on orders to limit his physical activities – including bounty hunting – for a few weeks.

Staring into the open cabinet, Solveig remembers seeing him return from his mission Nevarro: Din, marching back toward the _Crest_ against a sunset sky with only the child in his arms. Din, who had blood trailing down the neck of his flightsuit. She remembers, when he took of his helmet, the blood smeared on his face, the darkening bruises forming around his nose and jaw, the clammy-white pallor of his skin. When he told her that he had nearly died, she just about ripped him a new one.

She had softened quickly, however, after he explained that the explosion of the E-web cannon had left him severely concussed and unable to think straight. That, after IG reminded him that he was no living thing, Din allowed the removal of his helmet for the life-saving application of bacta. It had surprised her to learn that he let a droid help him, and she decided then that he truly must have been out of his mind.

Solveig forgave him, of course, and he promised that he would never ask her to stay behind again.

It has been two weeks since, and while Din is healing up nicely, Solveig has made sure that he has had sufficient rest to recover fully. He still gets occasional headaches, and she shakes the pain reliever in her hand to hear the rattle of a half-empty bottle.

Shoving the drugs into her pocket, Solveig shuts the cabinet and shifts over to the weapon’s locker. Touching an inset panel, the doors hiss open and light up, revealing Din and Solveig’s combined arsenal of weapons. There, in a prominent place inside, is her father’s tanto next to his collection of vibroblades and rifles. She smiles, running her hand along its handle, thinking about the time she gave it to him – back before she knew his face or heard the true gravelly velvet of his voice. For a moment, Solveig is lost in her memories of all the moments that have led up to this point.

She is so immersed in her reverie that she doesn’t hear the faint scrape of a boot behind her.

_White-hot, slicing pain._

Solveig gasps.

Immediately, the blade retreats from beneath her ribs.

A hand grasps her neck.

Before Solveig can react, her attacker throws her away from the weapon’s locker.

She hits the other side of the hold with a clang. Getting up quickly despite the pain, Solveig makes out a shadowy figure watching her with bright red lips twisted into a snarl.

“Time for our final dance, _little mouse_.”

Solveig freezes when she hears the voice – a savage, lascivious sound.

But Din had left her locked up on a New Republic prison transport.

_What the kriff is Xi'an doing here?_

Pressing a hand against her side and feeling her own blood seeping through her fingers, Solveig narrows her eyes but remains still as a statue.

Xi’an keeps her distance, flipping her knife in the air while licking her lips with a jeer.

“What’s the matter, Riis – don’t want to play?” she goads.

Solveig says nothing but moves to the end of the hold with keen eyes.

“Oh, I see,” she continues, now looking around the hold with mock delight, “You and Mando. Playing _house_.”

She hisses the last word, baring all of her teeth in a snarl. Then suddenly, she throws her knife at Solveig’s head. She dodges, sparking her to action. She moves now, incredibly fast, weaving across the hold floor to dodge every one of Xi’an’s daggers until she rushes upon the Twi’lek with a flying knee kick to the chest. Bowing forward in a grunt, Xi’an pitches forward right into Solveig’s uppercut.

The blow sends Xi’an staggering back. Blood drips off her already-red lips and she wipes it off with the cuff of her sleeve. Growling now, she digs her fingers into four circular blade handles and unsheathes them all at once. Solveig takes a few steps back to create room for what she has to do next.

“Looks like you really got him by the balls,” she taunts. “But then, _so did I_.”

Xi’an throws a blade. Solveig twists out of the way. The look on her face is flat, unresponsive. This only enrages Xi’an more.

“Too bad we couldn’t _share_ ,” she continues, throwing another blade. Solveig dodges again, biding her time.

“Where is he, by the way?” tapping the side of her third dagger on her chin. “I’d like to pay him back for what he did to my brother.” Her face lowers now, the smile slipping away and her expression turning deadly.

“He got what he deserved,” Solveig answers finally. Xi’an’s eyes light up with titillated rage.

“He fucking killed him!” she screams. As Xi’an raises her hand to release the rest of her daggers, Solveig rushes upon her and squeezes her wrist in just the right place to make her drop them. Seething now, the Twi’lek headbutts her, sending Solveig back a few paces. Taking the opportunity, Xi’an reels back with a fist, but it doesn’t land.

Xi’an holds Solveig’s collar with a surprised expression on her face, her fist hovering in the air. Then, turning wildly, she sees the Mandalorian standing behind with his hand gripping her arm.

Swiftly, he flips her around to face him and in one smooth movement, he throws a mean hook to the side of the jaw.

Xi’an’s face jerks in the same direction as his fist. Licking her lips and spitting bloody saliva at his feet, she looks up at him with a venomous smile.

“Fuck you, Mando.”

“Go to hell, Xi’an,” he snarls back.

Xi’an’s smile nearly splits her face in two. “Oh,” she breathes with malicious delight. “I’ll see you there.”

At this, she is already pulling out another blade, but before she can fully unsheathe it, the Mandalorian has already kicked it out of her hand.

Together, the Mandalorian and Solveig crowd her to the other end of the hold and with one silent nod, he tells Solveig everything she needs to know.

“Not a very hospitable welcome onto your ship, Mando,” she says, backing away from the two of them.

Solveig huffs. Whipping out the blaster Din had given her, she points it at Xi’an’s chest.

“This is _my_ ship,” she says with a smirk.

Xi’an’s eyes widen as her lips curl into a sneer. “Your ship? You don’t mean . . .”

Solveig finally reveals a triumphant smile as she stares the Twi’lek down. Then in a blink, she kicks Xi’an into the rectangular recess in the wall and slams the operating button. Icy vapor mists up all around, and the two of them watch until the hissing stops and the cold steam clears.

“That’s exactly what it is, bitch,” Solveig says, staring at the frozen, livid face of Xi’an preserved in carbonite.

Din traces a gloved hand down her spine. Looking up, Solveig turns to him without her mask now, wrinkling her nose with a smirk.

“You don’t have any more crazy women in your past, do you?”

“Do _you_ count?”

Solveig huffs and elbows him in the ribs. Shucking off his helmet and letting it fall to the ground, Din turns and wraps his arms around her. He smiles warmly and kisses her softly on the lips. Solveig melts into his touch, trailing her mouth down his chin and around the stubbly underside of his jaw. Din gasps and clutches the back of her head, tugging it back so he can access her mouth with his once again.

Just as he begins to suck deliciously on her lips and tongue, he is interrupted by a loud shriek.

Spinning around, Din sees the child trying to descend the ladder. The kid squeals when his feet lose their footing and he dangles, holding onto a rung with one arm.

“Kriff,” he mutters, breaking away from Solveig. He grabs the child in time and brings him over to her.

Immediately, the child lifts his hands to her, demanding that she take him. Wrapping him into her arms, Solveig scratches the hair between his ears and kisses him on the nose. The child responds by holding her face with his little claws and sucking on her nose.

“He missed you,” Din says, stroking the child’s furry ear.

Solveig lifts the child up to her face and plants kisses all over his cheeks. The kid bubbles with laughter. He even tries to kiss her back but only ends up opening his mouth and bobbing his lips like a fish on her face.

Din interrupts their moment when he lifts her shirt to get a look at her wound.

“Kriff, Solveig,” he says. “She got you good.”

“Nothing a little bacta and some hydroplast won’t help.”

Din hums and continues to prod at the wound. Solveig swats his hand away. “It’s fine.”

He huffs in resignation before walking over to the medical cabinet to give her a dose of bacta on her wound. Straining out of Solveig’s arms, the child grips Din’s hand and tries to put the spray nozzle in his mouth. Both parents exclaim in alarm as one reaches for the kid’s hand and the other yanks the canister away.

Solveig sighs in mock exasperation and holds the child up to her face by his armpits, shaking him gently.

“No,” she says, looking intently at his big, black eyes. “Not food.”

Her husband snorts. “I just fed him. If he keeps this up, we’ll have to get all the bounties we can get just to afford his appetite.”

Pulling out a little ring of metal hoops from her pocket, Solveig places him on the floor and gives him the toy. When she stands up again, she wraps her arms around Din’s shoulders and presses her face into his neck. He responds by holding her tight and kissing her temple.

“I love you, Din Djarin,” she says.

He nudges her face up to him and gives a gentle suck to her upper lip. “And I,” he says, pulling off another kiss, “ _adore you_ , Solveig Riis.”

They hold each other for a while in the dim light of the cargo hold, lips together and wrapped tightly together.

_BANG BANG BANG._

The sound reverberates through the metal walls of the hold. Solveig and Din break off their embrace to stare at the doors.

From behind, they hear a muffled voice.

“Mando! Riis! Shoulda thought twice for leavin’ us on that transport. Come out, or we’ll blow it open!”

An aggravated roar joins the man’s voice.

_Mayfeld and Burg._

Din and Solveig exchange nonchalant glances.

“Did they just . . . knock?”

Solveig shrugs. “Idiots.”

They stow away the kid and gather the weapons they need from the locker. Din slams on his helmet and smacks the door controls. The ramp descend slowly. Outside, the two mercenaries grin smugly with their weapons drawn. Their smiles fade, however, when they see Solveig’s cold, implacable face staring them down through her sniper rifle.

They blink, and it’s the last thing they see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So, wow. This is done. I'm a little sad about it but also happy that I completed the story to my satisfaction. 
> 
> Can I tell you a little secret though? 
> 
> My original plan was for Mando to find out that Solveig's sister Alva wasn't dead after all and that there would be a gut-wrenching twist in the story that would careen it off into an even loooooonger story. BUT.
> 
> I don't have time for that right now. And You (plural) might've killed me for it.  
> Plus, I was hankering for a warm, fuzzy ending with all the craziness that's happening in the world. So, you got the Shakespearean comedic ending, with a little more female badassery. At least with this ending, you can be happy they ended up together and there's a possibility to revisit their adventures in the future (or not). We shall see. :) 
> 
> So, THANK YOU one and all for reading, commenting, lurking, enjoying, whatever! If you have any comments about the ending, the story as a whole, or whatever you want to tell me, I'd love to hear your thoughts before I bid this project good-bye!


End file.
